Free Slow Burn by Terrence McCauley

you’re thinking in a way you know Carmichael and the feds won’t bother with. They’ll run around the city, kicking in doors and making a mess. If we do it our way — the quiet way — for just a little while longer, we just might bring back Jack alive.” And think how grateful the Van Dorns will be after that, I thought, but kept that part to myself.
    “If he’s alive,“ Loomis added. “And that’s a damned big ‘if’.”
    “But big enough for us to find out on our own. Our way. The way it should be done.”
    Appealing to the detective in Loomis was the smartest play I’d made in years. I watched as every one of his objections tumbled in his mind. He looked at his pocket watch again. “But it’s after eight, Charlie. We’re already overdue back at the precinct as it is. We’ve got to call something in before they come looking for us.”
    “So call it in and tell them I’m out running down a hot lead on the dead girl. Tell them it’s a big one and you’re waiting for me to call you back with more information. Tell them you don’t know where I am, but that I said it’s a whopper. That way we still tell the truth, just delay it a little.”
    “I don’t know, Charlie,” Floyd said. “Jessica’s been dead for hours and the fact they haven’t called for more ransom or dropped the kid off isn’t good. Remember how those bastards jerked around the Lindberghs and the kid was dead the whole time.”
    “Maybe, but I say we find that out on our own. What’ll it hurt?” Loomis dug his hands into his pockets and walked away from me. He was thinking it over hard, but I could tell he was starting to slide my way.
    When he turned around, he said, “The best we can do is buy ourselves an hour, maybe two at the most.”
    “It’s not much,” I admitted, “but it might just be enough time.”
    “Time to do what?” Floyd asked. “We’ve got two crimes and no leads. The mother’s in no shape to talk and the father’s a basket case.”
    And for the first time ever, I was one step ahead of Floyd Loomis. “That leaves one man left to question. And I think I’ve got a good idea of where I’ll find him, too.”

THINGS AIN’T WHAT THEY USED TO BE
    T HE KITCHEN of the Van Dorn mansion was three times bigger than my apartment, and twice as clean.
    Glistening pots and pans hung from hooks around the center island. Nothing was out of place on the counters. No stains, no plates in the sinks. The whole place was as white and clean as a hospital. Everything smelled like lemons. The butler who’d let us in was sitting alone at a small wooden table tucked away in a corner.
    Now that I had a better look at him, I saw he was thin all over, and mostly bald, save for a crown of light brown hair around the edges. He had deeply set eyes and a solemn, angular face. I watched him dunk a tea bag in and out of a small blue and white cup on a saucer. His heart didn’t seem to be in it.
    “I assume you’ve spoken to Mr. Van Dorn,” the butler said, not bothering to look up.
    “I did. He told me everything about what happened to Jack. And about what happened to Silas Van Dorn. I’ll bet you’re having a pretty rough time of it. You’ve probably been with the family for years.”
    The butler hardly moved. “I take it that Miss Jessica…” He couldn’t say the words.
    I slipped my hands into my pockets. “Yeah.”
    The butler looked into his cup. “I knew she was dead when we didn’t hear from her right away. Poor girl didn’t deserve that. I’m not sure anyone does, but she certainly didn’t.” He set the tea bag on the saucer. The chair creaked as he sat back in it and looked at me for the first time. His eyes were pale blue, but still had a line of red about them.
    “You said your name’s Doherty, isn’t it?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Charlie Doherty. And yours?”
    “Gerard Soames, sir.” The “sir” was too automatic to be sincere. “And I’ve been in service to the Van Dorn family for