Free Friendly Fire by John Gilstrap

your lawyer before you answer any questions.”
    â€œAnd they’ll do that?”
    â€œYes. Well, they might sniff around your answer a couple of times, but once you invoke your right to speak to your lawyer, they’ll stop.”
    â€œBut you said they can lie.”
    â€œNot about this.” Culligan smiled. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “It gets confusing.”
    * * *
    Jonathan Grave loved his office atop the converted firehouse in Fisherman’s Cove, Virginia. Featuring dark woods and leather furniture, it had the feel and the look of a gentlemen’s club. The windows looked out on the marina, where the masts of pleasure boats seemed to be engaged in a slow-motion sword fight. Down to the right, maybe four blocks from the front door, crews of commercial fishing vessels and dock workers toiled to keep the residents of Virginia’s Northern Neck—and parts beyond—stocked with seafood. Jonathan wished sometimes that he was more of a boat person than he was. It seemed wasteful to possess such a view yet enjoy so little of the activities. He found peace in the rhythms of the waves and the masts and in the foreverness of the horizon.
    Much as he enjoyed the view of the world through the windows behind him, he desperately hated the view of the piles of papers that cluttered his desk. As president of Security Solutions, a major player in the world of high-end private investigations, he had to stay at least reasonably versed in various ongoing investigations, and he most certainly had to sign all the checks, though even that was something of a formality.
    While most of the administrative matters were handled by Venice Alexander, and most of the standard investigatory issues were expertly managed by Gail Bonneville—his one-time nemesis and subsequent lover (until they broke up—no awkwardness there! )—Jonathan had learned from his father a long time ago that one should never cede control of one’s money to a third party. It was one thing to write the checks—any bookkeeper could do that—but it was something else entirely to sign them. He kept that duty for himself.
    And there were a lot of checks to be signed. Between the 0300 mission to rescue the Johnson girl, and an op right before that to separate a Mexican banker from some mean-spirited drug lords, he’d been away from the office for ten days, and he was shocked by the speed with which administrivia could stack up. The good news was that Venice and Gail both had arranged their respective stacks of paper more or less in the order of their importance.
    Security Solutions was in every sense a legitimate private investigation firm, providing confidential services to some of the world’s most recognizable companies, none of which knew anything about the covert side of the business which interested Jonathan infinitely more. The firm’s name was not well-known to the private investigations industry, but it was known among the quarters where it mattered. Security Solutions specialized in obtaining the most sensitive kinds of information through means that were always successful and rarely discussed. That meant the kinds of fees that allowed him to pay his employees very, very well.
    Jonathan’s office resided in a corner suite that he called The Cave. He shared the space with Venice and Boxers, the latter of whom rarely spent much time in the office. Of everyone on the payroll, Boxers was the most . . . action-oriented.
    A light rapping on his open office door pulled his eyes from his papers, happy for some relief. Venice stood in the doorway with Dom D’Angelo. “Have you got a minute?” Venice asked.
    He didn’t like the expression on her face. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œWe need to talk,” Dom said.
    â€œUh-oh.” Jonathan had known Venice since he was a teenager and she was a little girl with a crush. Her mother—Mama Alexander—had officially been