Free Ghosts of the Past by Mark H. Downer Page B

and examined the contents. “We’ll run this for prints, and if we score someone, we’ll have somebody get back to you. Thanks for your patience Mr. Ferguson.”
    “No, thank you officer, I appreciate your help.”
    “You gonna be alright here by yourself tonight? You got any relatives or friends you could stay with?”
    “No, I’ll be fine. I do think I’ll bring my shotgun to bed with me though.”
    “You do have a permit for that?” Brucker cocked his head in mock concern.
    “Yes sir officer, I’m fully compliant.” Ferguson laughed in reply.
    “Good! My guess is that whoever was here has no interest in coming back. That’s if he’s capable of even walking around. Goodnight Mr. Ferguson. We’ll be in touch.”
     
    For the better part of the remaining evening, Ferguson tried to put everything that wasn’t broken back in it’s place, and everything that was, he put in a pile by the same back door that had helped him save his life earlier. The biggest problem he was having, however, was the half-angry, half-disgusted feeling of having been violated by some ‘shithead’ stranger that had just stolen his property… his stuff.
    Dragging himself off to bed, he undressed and emptied his pockets and laid his wallet on the dresser. He retrieved his cell phone, the translation book and the copy of the map he had stacked by the phone in the kitchen. He set them down next to his wallet, right where he had left behind the other photocopy of the front of the letter… but it wasn’t there.
    He didn’t notice it before. He had accounted for a lot of missing things, but not the letter, at least half of the letter. The other half, containing the map had been with him at dinner.
    He scoured the floor, behind the dresser, in the garbage can, under the bed, and then stopped dead in his tracks. He stared blankly at the wall, while a small chill made it’s way up his spine. He was here for the letter.

Chapter 6  
    May 19, 2001. Chicago, Illinois.
    Jason Allen had been perched on one of the bar stools that fronted the long mahogany and brass bar at Kitty O’Sheas on Michigan Avenue. His average height and build, along with indistinguishable features, made him a very ordinary man at the age 46. He had never stood out physically among the crowd, and he had never separated himself from his peers with his talents as an artist. His short and unremarkable career had led him early on into administrative work in the fine arts to help pay the bills, and he leveraged the contacts and connections he had made into a lucrative appraisal, authentication and brokerage business with an impeccable reputation. He had worked with Grayson Lewis for years and had never done anything to cause Lewis to question his intentions. However, alcohol, gambling, and several risky investments gone bad had taken their toll as of late and he had recently begun secretly associating with some rather unscrupulous characters, even resorting to capitalizing on several questionable opportunities that had presented themselves, in most cases at the expense of others.
    He had visualized a golden opportunity when he heard from Lewis, and naturally had sworn the secrecy Lewis demanded. He had just the person in mind, when he was able to recover from the significance of the artwork that Grayson Lewis had discussed with his daughter.
    The black stretch limousine pulled up to the curb, just in front of the Hilton’s cab line, outside the bar’s front door. Allen had been periodically eyeing the street and needed no prompting, immediately standing down, knocking back the remaining portion of his half-and-half, and depositing a ten-dollar bill next to the empty glass. He hurried outside into the cool, overcast evening, walked over to the chauffeur holding the rear door open, nodded and climbed in.
    Guillermo Rocca was comfortably squeezed between two incredibly beautiful and scantily clad ladies of the evening. A half empty bottle of Perrier Jouet Champagne lay in