Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation Read Free

me.
    “Nope,” I replied and took another lazy draw
from my cigar. “But you know how Ben is. If he says six in the
evening, he really means eight.”
    “Ever since his promotion, we’re lucky to see
him at all,” she expressed. “Are Allison and Ben Junior
coming?”
    “I doubt it. He said something about Al
taking the little guy out shopping for clothes.”
    “Well...” She pushed the screen door open a
bit to allow one of our cats to exit the confines of the house.
“I’m going to go upstairs and pay some bills. Let me know when he
gets here. I don’t want to miss this little celebration. Remember,
I’m the one who’s pregnant.”
    “I doubt that you’ll let me forget it,” I
answered, looking back at her with a grin. “I’ll call you when he
shows up.”
    She smiled in return and left me to my cigar
and quiet contemplation of the tree-lined street, as well as my
attempts to dull the secret, foreboding sensation with a tumbler of
single malt scotch on the rocks. Ten minutes short of an hour
later, not only had I still not managed to shake the feeling, but
it grew even stronger as a tired-looking Chevrolet van rolled into
my driveway. The engine knocked and complained as the driver
switched it off, and then it sputtered into silence. After a
moment, the door opened with a labored screech, and the occupant
extricated himself from the seat.
    Ben Storm was a Native American, six-foot-six
with jet-black hair and the finely angular features one associated
with the boilerplate portrayal of feather-adorned natives from TV
Westerns. He kept himself in excellent physical condition and made
a very imposing figure both in and out of uniform. When he had been
a street cop, I often joked that he was the last person I would
want to see coming down a dark alley at me if I had done something
wrong. He always made it a point to bet that he would be the first
person I would want to see coming down that alley were I in
trouble. I never hesitated to agree.
    Just over a year ago, fate dealt him a
winning hand. He had been promoted to Detective and was assigned to
homicide investigations. This was a radical, though welcome, change
from knocking down the doors of crack houses, which had been his
previous assignment. Now, at times, his work schedule had become
less structured and was often expanded with overtime. However, that
time was more often spent interviewing suspects and gathering
evidence than dodging bullets sprayed from an illegally modified,
Tech Nine machine pistol in the hands of a fifteen-year-old
gangbanger.
    I knew for a certainty that his wife was
happy to have him out of the direct line of fire. Felicity and I
had made no secret of the fact that we were just as relieved.
    The van door made a loud groan of protest as
he pushed it shut, then he turned and strode up my sidewalk with a
brown paper bag tucked casually under his arm.
    “I can’t believe you’re still driving that
old piece of crap,” I called to him and motioned toward the
decrepit looking Chevy.
    He was halfway up the flagstone walkway when
he stopped, looked back at the vehicle for a moment, then turned
back to me. “What?” he answered, feigning insult, then with a shrug
continued walking. “It still runs.”
    He climbed the stairs and parked himself on
the edge of the porch then stretched and let out an exhausted
sigh.
    “Ya’know,” he finally said as he set the
paper bag carefully on the first step. “Bein’ a copper is a menial
job... It’s kinda like bein’ the secretary for all the chaos out
there in the world...But anyway…” He reached into his jacket and
pulled out two cigars then handed one to me. “Congrats on the kid
ya’ silly ‘effin white man.”
    “Thanks, Chief.” I took the cigar and gave it
a close look. “Dominican, eh? Been hanging around the tobacconist
playing Wooden Indian again?” I grinned.
    “Yeah, blow it out your
ass,” he laughed. “One of the coppers I helped with a case owed me
one and