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Authors: M. D. Grayson
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Toni.
“Yes?”
“Good luck with your housebreaking.”
Chapter 4
AT LOGAN PI, we hold a lot of early morning briefings—a holdover from my CID days, I suppose. On existing cases, we discuss case progress. On potential new cases, we discuss whether or not we even want to accept it. We’re smart enough to realize that not every case fits us. We even have a standing rule—we won’t accept a case where we don’t feel we can add value. Although there are desperate people willing to pay a lot of money for answers, I’m not comfortable simply taking someone’s hard-earned money knowing in advance that we won’t be able to deliver the goods. For instance, although we get asked from time to time, we’re too small to be very good at most personal-protection work—it’s not something we specialize in. I refer this type of work to another agency. We’re best at surveillance, locating missing persons, and recovery of lost or stolen items.
Another of our standing rules is that we won’t accept a case to work with someone who we think is doing something illegal. We don’t need the potential trouble. This rule is actually a subset of a bigger rule that says we also won’t accept any case that might get us turned sideways with any of the law enforcement agencies we have to work with—local, state, or federal. This especially applies to the Seattle Police Department because we work with them all the time. We rely on our relationship with the police to be able to operate effectively. Like I told Inez, we feel our roles are complementary. If it ever got to the point like on the TV shows where the cops seem to loathe the PIs, then we may as well close our doors and go home.
The next morning at 8:45, I was in my office preparing for the nine o’clock briefing when I heard an associate of mine arrive. I listened as he walked down the hall toward his office, swearing softly to himself in Spanish. I leaned into the hallway and said, “What’s up, Doc?” I do a pretty fair Bugs Bunny.
Joaquin “Doc” Kiahtel, a tall, handsome, very muscular Native American man, stopped and wiped the rain from his eyes. He stared at me menacingly. “I’m a full-blooded Chiricahua Apache,” he said softly. “I grew up on the Mescalero Reservation in New Mexico. Beautiful country—
dry
country. It used to rain six or seven times a year. We actually celebrated the rain in those days. It was special. Now look at me.” He straightened his arms and watched the water drip off his Gore-Tex jacket. “I look like a friggin’ duck. What the hell am I doing here in a place where it rains every stinkin’ day, except maybe six or seven days a year when it’s sunny?”
I smiled. “Savor the sun, my friend. Savor the sun—just like the rest of us.”
He stared at me. “Yeah, right,” he said before turning and stalking off into his office.
I smiled. He’d get over it. Doc is a private investigator on our staff as well as our director of security. He’s six four and weighs two-thirty or so—basically all muscle. He’s an imposing sight. Doc and I became friends while we were both still in the army stationed at Fort Lewis. He’s pretty hush-hush about what he actually did in the army, but I know he was in the Rangers—at least. I say “at least” because I suspect Doc was probably involved in a lot more than just the Rangers—perhaps even something as secretive as Delta Force. He spent most of 2005 through 2007 behind enemy lines somewhere in Afghanistan. Doc’s an expert with his hands and with almost any sort of weapon. I left the army in December 2007 and opened Logan PI three months later. When Doc got out six months after that, I hired him immediately.
“Doc, have you seen Kenny yet?” I called out to him.
“I’m here,”came a voice from the office across from Doc’s. A moment later, Kenny Hale stepped into the hallway.
“I’ve got something you might be interested in,” I said.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yep.
“Yes?”
“Good luck with your housebreaking.”
Chapter 4
AT LOGAN PI, we hold a lot of early morning briefings—a holdover from my CID days, I suppose. On existing cases, we discuss case progress. On potential new cases, we discuss whether or not we even want to accept it. We’re smart enough to realize that not every case fits us. We even have a standing rule—we won’t accept a case where we don’t feel we can add value. Although there are desperate people willing to pay a lot of money for answers, I’m not comfortable simply taking someone’s hard-earned money knowing in advance that we won’t be able to deliver the goods. For instance, although we get asked from time to time, we’re too small to be very good at most personal-protection work—it’s not something we specialize in. I refer this type of work to another agency. We’re best at surveillance, locating missing persons, and recovery of lost or stolen items.
Another of our standing rules is that we won’t accept a case to work with someone who we think is doing something illegal. We don’t need the potential trouble. This rule is actually a subset of a bigger rule that says we also won’t accept any case that might get us turned sideways with any of the law enforcement agencies we have to work with—local, state, or federal. This especially applies to the Seattle Police Department because we work with them all the time. We rely on our relationship with the police to be able to operate effectively. Like I told Inez, we feel our roles are complementary. If it ever got to the point like on the TV shows where the cops seem to loathe the PIs, then we may as well close our doors and go home.
The next morning at 8:45, I was in my office preparing for the nine o’clock briefing when I heard an associate of mine arrive. I listened as he walked down the hall toward his office, swearing softly to himself in Spanish. I leaned into the hallway and said, “What’s up, Doc?” I do a pretty fair Bugs Bunny.
Joaquin “Doc” Kiahtel, a tall, handsome, very muscular Native American man, stopped and wiped the rain from his eyes. He stared at me menacingly. “I’m a full-blooded Chiricahua Apache,” he said softly. “I grew up on the Mescalero Reservation in New Mexico. Beautiful country—
dry
country. It used to rain six or seven times a year. We actually celebrated the rain in those days. It was special. Now look at me.” He straightened his arms and watched the water drip off his Gore-Tex jacket. “I look like a friggin’ duck. What the hell am I doing here in a place where it rains every stinkin’ day, except maybe six or seven days a year when it’s sunny?”
I smiled. “Savor the sun, my friend. Savor the sun—just like the rest of us.”
He stared at me. “Yeah, right,” he said before turning and stalking off into his office.
I smiled. He’d get over it. Doc is a private investigator on our staff as well as our director of security. He’s six four and weighs two-thirty or so—basically all muscle. He’s an imposing sight. Doc and I became friends while we were both still in the army stationed at Fort Lewis. He’s pretty hush-hush about what he actually did in the army, but I know he was in the Rangers—at least. I say “at least” because I suspect Doc was probably involved in a lot more than just the Rangers—perhaps even something as secretive as Delta Force. He spent most of 2005 through 2007 behind enemy lines somewhere in Afghanistan. Doc’s an expert with his hands and with almost any sort of weapon. I left the army in December 2007 and opened Logan PI three months later. When Doc got out six months after that, I hired him immediately.
“Doc, have you seen Kenny yet?” I called out to him.
“I’m here,”came a voice from the office across from Doc’s. A moment later, Kenny Hale stepped into the hallway.
“I’ve got something you might be interested in,” I said.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yep.
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