Colby Conspiracy. Debra WebbЧитать онлайн книгу.
no aspirations about going out tonight, he was glad the rain had stopped. He watched the flow of pedestrians as they ventured from the shops and restaurants on the Magnificent Mile from his vantage point in a luxurious suite on one of the uppermost floors of the historic Allerton Crowne Plaza. He’d never been big on hotels, but he had to admit that even he was impressed by the stately European decor of this one. But what he found most appealing was the location. Close to everything that was anything in the city of Chicago, and one place in particular—the Colby Agency.
Daniel had made this journey to the Gold Coast district of the Windy City by special invitation. After leaving his military career six months ago, he had taken some time to consider what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. Then he’d floated résumés to a few agencies of interest to see what sort of offers he might attract. Victoria Colby-Camp, the esteemed head of the Colby Agency, had invited him to come to her fair city and spend a week or two getting to know the area—at her expense, no less.
He was scheduled to meet with her on Friday. It was Monday night, and he’d been here two days already. Time enough to get the general lay of the land, and, with one of the city’s top real estate agents at his beck and call, to consider possible areas where he might want to live if he accepted a coveted position with the Colby Agency.
Daniel scrubbed a hand over his jaw and laughed at himself. He hadn’t been made an offer yet. Maybe he was assuming too much. He’d only been invited to meet with the venerable head of the agency. But he understood from her come-get-to-know-us offer that she was more than a little interested. He didn’t find that part surprising, since the Federal Bureau of Investigation and Homeland Security had been interested, as well.
Hell, he wasn’t oblivious to what he had to offer. He’d spent ten years in the army as a military strategist and left with the rank of major, knowing he could have been promoted to lieutenant colonel immediately if he’d opted to continue in service. Like most everything else in his life, he’d been on the fast track from the day he’d entered Officer Candidate School.
But he had grown weary of the bureaucracy. Of the political head games that only the military could play with such precision and impact. Not that he’d left the army with a bad taste in his mouth, not at all. Daniel, without question, maintained the deepest respect and admiration for those serving their country in any and all capacities. He simply felt as if he’d done all he could in that world. His momentum had hit a ceiling, and he was going nowhere fast, with more frustration than he cared to tolerate. A mere promotion in rank wasn’t enough. He needed more…something where he could reach his fullest potential without all the political runarounds.
That was the reason he was here in Chicago, rather than in D.C. talking to bigwigs at the Bureau or Homeland Security. With any government agency, he was bound to run into the same thing that had prompted him to move beyond the military. He felt certain that the only way to escape all the bureaucratic crap was to go into the private sector.
So here he was, lounging in a swanky hotel and pondering what the future might hold for a thirty-two-year-old man who’d spent every day of his life since college proudly wearing the prestigious uniform representing the American Armed Forces.
He ran his fingers through his regulation short hair. He couldn’t see that changing. It was force of habit. Every other week, he got a haircut. Nor were the physical rigors of his former career going to be left by the wayside. He intended to keep up the physical training for his general well-being, as well as to make him a better investigator—wherever he went to work. Keeping in shape served a dual purpose.
He turned away from the window and strode across to the minibar. The only thing he’d had any trouble getting used to was wearing civvies, civilian clothes. Twisting off the cap of a bottle of beer, he peered down at his stonewashed jeans and cotton cargo shirt. It wasn’t any hardship, really; it just took a little more planning. He’d worn the same assortment of uniforms for ten years; he’d never had to worry if anything matched or looked right together; army regulation had dictated his wardrobe, from the cap on his head to the shoes on his feet.
After a long draw from his beer, he dropped onto the foot of the bed and clicked on the local news. Might as well learn the bad with the good. If offered a position with the Colby Agency, he anticipated no reason why he would not be readily accepting. So far, he liked the city. Couldn’t see any problems with fitting in.
A frown nudged its way across his brow and he wondered, if he stayed here, would he finally move on to the next logical level of his life. His military career had proved too unpredictable for putting down any sort of permanent roots. He’d been involved in several short-term relationships, but nothing even remotely permanent or serious. His savings were quite adequate—he could afford to buy a home and finally put down those kinds of roots. Not that he’d actually known that sort of lifestyle even before joining the military. He was the quintessential military brat, moving from post to post his entire life, with the exception of the four years he’d spent at Columbia, studying political science with an emphasis on prelaw. Rather than going on to law school, he’d opted for the military, just like his father. He’d felt the need to do his duty. He did not regret that decision now.
His own parents had retired to Florida five years ago. Needless to say, his father was not happy about Daniel’s decision to return to civilian life, but he was man enough to restrain himself on the issue. Daniel’s mother simply wanted her one and only son—only offspring, for that matter—to be happy. She wanted grandchildren.
Daniel didn’t know if he was ready to do the whole wife-and-kids thing just yet, but he couldn’t say he didn’t feel the need to find something more stable, more long-standing, in a relationship.
He turned up his beer once more and downed a deep, satisfying swallow. Maybe he just needed to get laid. He’d steered clear of physical entanglements since officially exiting the military, more to ensure that a sexual relationship didn’t influence his objectivity about his future than anything else. He wanted to do this right. This was a big step for him.
The Colby Agency was where he wanted to be.
He’d researched a number of prominent private agencies and not a one could hold a candle to the Colby Agency’s sterling reputation. Victoria Colby-Camp selected only the cream of the crop as members of her staff. Daniel liked the idea that he would be working with the best of the best from all walks of life. Some were former military, like him, but others came from the Bureau, from the ranks of various smaller law enforcement agencies or other, more routine occupations.
He eased back onto the mound of pillows and scanned the television channels, studying the faces that represented local media. Faces with which he would become very familiar, since the Colby Agency was a very high-profile part of this city. Whether Victoria knew it or not, he had already made up his mind. This was where he wanted to be.
And whatever it took, he intended to make it happen.
CHAPTER THREE
CHICAGO BOASTED the largest Chinatown in the Midwest. Densely populated with more than 10,000 residents, mostly Chinese, the area south of Cermak Road was chock-full of Asian grocery and herbal shops, bakeries and restaurants. Traditional Chinese architecture filled the colorful streetscape, welcoming new visitors and longtime residents alike.
Amid the terra-cotta ornaments and mosaic murals, bold, sculpted lions guarded street-level doorways. But nothing in this eclectic culture could protect against the events playing out beyond the commercialized places where tourists wandered. Here, in this less-than-desirable section, there was no glamour or glitz, certainly no goodness. There was only fear waiting around every corner, and survival of the most ruthless was the single prevailing law.
The alley was long and narrow, dark and damp from the rain that had fallen earlier that evening.
Homicide Detective Carter Hastings was barely three months from retirement. He’d turned fifty-five a few weeks ago. Most might not consider that milestone old, but it was damned ancient for a cop. He had decided that he would spend the rest of his life making up for all he’d missed or failed to accomplish these past thirty-odd years. In particular, he wanted to rectify