Stolen Power

at him for a long moment.
“If you hear anything about Chase or that money, you need to call me right away.”
He nodded his response, and I left with the information, heading back to my waiting Chevy.
But I knew it wasn’t the whole truth. I knew he was holding something back. And I also knew that I was going to find out what it was, no matter the consequences.
A girl’s life was on the line and time was running out fast.

Chapter 6


The most crucial stage of any private investigation work wasn’t the inspection of the crime scene or scenario to be investigated, it wasn’t the identifying of potential witnesses or suspects, or the interviewing of those individuals. Nope. The most essential step, the step that showed an investigator what he needed to know the most, was the collection of information gathered about the person hiring the investigator. The person who should be beyond reproach, but seldom is.
Ordinary, regular people with ordinary, regular lives don’t hire private investigators. People who are in trouble, people who have messed up, hire investigators. And more often than not, they’re holding something back. And what they are holding back was often of imminent importance.
By the time I had arrived back in my office after talking to my brother-in-law, Casey May already had a file on my desk. The beauty of investigating in the age of the internet was that the information was readily available at a few clicks of a mouse.
Chase Martin grew up in a poor family in Detroit, his father was a blue collar worker, his mother a housewife. The youngest of three brothers and one sister, he was always striving for attention, always trying to gather a response.
His school records didn’t show anything outstanding, nor did the reviews of his academic record at university. His yearbook quote was brief and unimaginative, ‘I play to win’, but it pretty much summed Chase up. I could see from his photo he was not a bad looking kid. I suppose that helps when you plan to spend your life charming people then ripping them off.
He had had one run-in with the law when he was fifteen for trying to sell fake handbags at a festival, but other than that, his nose was clean. On paper at least.
He’d spent ten years working for a small investment firm, before branching out on his own. And that’s where his career really took a turn for the better, or worse, depending on your perspective. The claims of fraudulent behavior were long, and varied, but nothing stuck, nothing held up in a court of law.
He was either lucky, innocent, or very cunning.
I was going with the third option.
“Anything from Ben?” Casey asked.
“A hint, but nothing more. I don’t buy his alibi, but I didn’t see any evidence of a kidnapping.” I sat behind the desk in my office, flicking through the file on Chase Martin.
To the untrained eye my office was a dump, my desk had a virtual pyramid of old random case notes piled up in the middle, intermingled with old newspapers, random automobile and pick-up truck magazines, empty packs of cigarettes, even a couple of empty pizza boxes; OK, perhaps more than just a couple of boxes, but this wasn’t an interior design project, it was my workplace. It sure wasn’t pretty or organized, but then as Einstein once said, ‘If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what then, is an empty desk a sign?’ I liked it that way and it worked for me.
“What’ve you got?” I asked Casey.
“I’m still working on the list of his most recent investors, but I think you’re going to enjoy your first interview this morning. The location anyway. The ex-wife works as a bartender not far from here in Logan Square. She usually works the dead shift—Sunday morning from eleven.”
“Perfect.” I smiled.
The 11am shift in a bar usually meant few customers, and small tips from those who did arrive, but that was good for me. A few dollars thrown in the right direction after the first drink and she’d be all ears, and hopefully a bit of mouth too, I needed some information and hoped I could get her to talk.
I looked at my watch. Enough time to down a coffee or two—double strength and black—while I read the full file on Chase Martin, and then find myself at the bar by 11am.
“Keep me updated on what you find out about the surveillance footage of the area.” I nodded to Casey as I walked back out the door. “I’m going to check out the ex-wife. See if she can give us a hint.”
Within the hour, I was three coffees in, well-read on Chase’s life, and ready to walk through the doors of the Malt and Hops bar in Logan Square.
“What’ll it be, hon?” asked an attractive but world worn looking blond in a low-cut top.
I liked the name ‘hon.’ It’s instantly welcoming, warming, and transported me back to a time when my grandmother used to bake cookies on Sunday morning. My Grandmother and I were close. I’ll never forget the words she wanted on her headstone: “What are you doing in here with that hammer?” She liked that sort of humor. But I wasn’t there for jokes, I was there to talk with Chase Martin’s ex-wife, and Millie’s mother, Tanya.
“I’ve had a rough month. Just after a beer and an ear.” I threw a fifty on the table, and Tanya’s eyes lit up. “Keep the drinks flowing and the conversation rolling.”
She poured a pint of beer, with a head slightly too big, and placed it on the bar in front of me.
The bar was too bright for my liking, too many windows. Its menu was too long, with far too many