Lethal Affair. Jean Pichon Thomas
No one could say Casey McBride didn’t love Chicago. But, hell, this was April. The weather should have been kind. Not like this, with snowflakes slashing through the air, driven by a mean wind sweeping down Rush Street.
He’d had to park a block away. A long block at that. Or so it seemed as, coat collar up around his ears, he finally battled his way to the door of Digger’s Sports Bar.
Ah, shelter at last, Casey thought.
He stood inside the entrance, swiping the back of his hand across his eyes to rid himself of the tears the wind had provoked. It gave him a moment to adjust his vision to the dimness of the place.
Digger’s was the traditional sports bar. Big screen TVs located in several strategic spots. The upper portions of its walls hung with assorted jerseys. The lower halves devoted to signed photographs of players on Chicago teams—the Bears, Bulls, Blackhawks and Casey’s favorite, the Cubs.
He located Will’s lanky figure standing next to a booth at the far end of the room, signaling to him with a raised hand. Will could have had just about any one of the booths, since this wasn’t the Happy Hour for the newspaper crowd who frequented Digger’s. Casey could only guess that Will, himself a sports writer for the Tribune, had chosen both the time and the rear booth as ideal for a private meeting.
Casey joined Will. The two men shook hands.
“Thanks for coming, Case. I appreciate it, especially when...well, you know.”
“Water under the bridge, man.” It wasn’t, but why make the poor guy uncomfortable for something that hadn’t been his fault?
Peeling off his coat and dumping it into a corner of the booth, Casey slid himself in beside it. Will settled himself across from him. The server rounded the end of the bar and approached their table. Both men ordered draft beers.
Will was silent until the beers were delivered and the server retreated. Casey waited, pretending to be patient. Only when they were alone again did Will, leaning forward, speak.
“Sorry to be so secretive like this, Case, but word has a way of getting around when it’s about someone so well-known in the city. And I’d rather it didn’t.”
There was an earnest tone in Will’s voice, a solemn expression on his face. Didn’t necessarily mean anything. Will had the kind of long, thin face that looked serious whatever his mood.
Casey paused long enough to sample his beer, deciding he hadn’t tasted any better. Unless he counted a hot summer afternoon at Wrigley Field watching his beloved Cubs. “So, who are we talking about here?”
“Marcus Bradley. You familiar with the name?”
“I’d have to be living under a manhole cover not to be. Chicago billionaire who made his major bucks in electronics, right?”
“That’s the one.”
“Okay, what about him?”
Will paused, sucking in what looked like a long breath to nerve himself before answering him. “Brenna is involved with him.”
Casey used his beer to collect himself, sipping at it slowly. Will had yet to touch his own mug. He was watching Casey, waiting for his reaction. He was going to be disappointed if he thought his news was going to matter to him.
“In case you’ve forgotten, Will, your sister and I stopped being interested in each other a long time ago.” It was what he had convinced himself, anyway, although from time to time he’d had to remind himself of that.
“I’m worried about her, Case.”
That was no surprise. With their parents gone, and no other close relatives that Casey knew about, the two of them had always been tight. Only Will had had a habit of being just a bit too overly protective of Brenna. It seemed like that hadn’t changed.
“Why? Why should you be worried? From what I’ve heard, Marcus Bradley is not only rich but handsome, currently single and well liked. Aside from an age difference—he’s in his late fifties, though that doesn’t seem to matter these days—I’d say he’s a match for a woman who knows her own mind. And Brenna,” he added dryly, “always knew her own mind.”
No jealousy here, McBride, he tried to convince himself. You’re no longer entitled to it.
“Thing is, Brenna insists they’re not involved romantically. That Bradley is only interested in her art.”
“Well, then.”
Will shook his head. “I don’t trust the guy. Okay, so he’s suave and charming, if you like the type, but there’s something not genuine about him. Something that isn’t quite right.”
“Will, why did you ask me here? If it’s just to complain about Marcus Bradley—”
“No, it’s more than that. See, Bradley has this vacation home on St. Sebastian. You know the place?”
“Not really. An island in the Caribbean, isn’t it?”
Will nodded. “He’s building a luxury resort there.”
“And?”
“Brenna is there with him now. She’s supposed to be producing a series of paintings, island scenes for this resort.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I’m uneasy about her being there. I tried to talk her out of going, but she wouldn’t listen. Said I was being ridiculous about something perfectly innocent and legitimate.”
“Maybe you are.”
“That was then. But since she left, I had the chance to talk to one of the investigative reporters in the newsroom of the Trib. I’d heard he was interested in Bradley.”
“What did you learn?”
“That Bradley is a respected philanthropist.”
“And that’s a reason for you to be concerned?”
“No, of course not, except my reporter hinted there’ve been rumors of, as he put it, ‘less virtuous activities.’”
“Like what?”
“He wouldn’t say, other than they were nothing he was able to pin down that would warrant a story his editor would risk a lawsuit for. But...”
“You’re still uneasy.”
“Yeah, I keep having this feeling I can’t shake. Like there’s something wrong about the whole setup with Bradley. Like he has an agenda he didn’t share with Brenna.”
“Sounds like you have an agenda of your own. And maybe I’m it.” Fearing he already knew the explanation, Casey hunched forward, demanding sharply, “Just why am I here, Will?”
“I need you, Case. I need what you are, a special ops FBI agent with all the skills required to protect the sister who means everything to me. If something is wrong, if she should end up at risk...”
Casey leaned back, laughing. It was a laugh without mirth. “You want me to go down there to St. Sebastian. You want me to be there for her.”
“You could do it. I know you’re available. I know you’re on temporary suspension from the bureau while a case that you were a part of that went bad is under investigation.”
“How did you learn that? It hasn’t been made public.”
“I have my sources. You forget I’m a reporter myself, even if my news is in the sports section.”
“Yeah, I could do it. Not in any official capacity, naturally. I could visit this island for you and not let myself be concerned that I might be taking a chance on screwing up being cleared at the agency, which I expect to be the outcome of the investigation. I could do it, but I’m not going to.”
“I’d pay all your expenses.”