Chapter 3

“You heard that right. Thomas Goldstone, the golden child of Roseboro, laid out a very daring challenge to the community,” the idiotic talking head blathers on the screen, grinning widely.

“And he backed his words up with substantial financial support. It’ll be exciting to see what ideas will come of this over the next three months. We’ll continue reporting as progress is made by the various teams that are already forming. Reporting from the Goldstone Building, this is Trevor Olliphant, Channel 5 News.”

It’s hard not to slam my fist down on my remote with disgust as I turn off the television, growling. Yet again, I’ve been upstaged by Thomas Goldstone. Not that I’ve made any large public moves lately. No, my chess game is better played in the shadows, strategic moves hidden by layers of players who only know a portion of my greater plan.

Unfortunately, my plan hasn’t gone accordingly, as of late. My agent inside Goldstone was discovered, and while my name didn’t come out of it, it was still a setback.

Then my idea to hit Goldstone’s weakness, his bleeding heart, resulted in Isabella Turner seducing the hitman I hired. That hurt even more, because now Goldstone knows I’m coming for him. And a prepared enemy is always more dangerous than a surprised one.

To some people, that would be more than enough to send them scurrying in defeat. But this isn’t a game. This is war. And war is a long game, a culmination of many moves that result in a win on a broad scale.

The history of warfare is filled with stories of men who would hit, get beaten, retreat... and eventually emerge victorious. George Washington lost more battles than he won, yet he was the Father of the United States.

And my next plan will be my Yorktown, where I will destroy in one maneuver not just the Golden Boy, but his woman, her friends... and everyone who might doubt me in Roseboro.

There will be no doubt who the king of Roseboro is when I’m done. I built this city, and it will remain mine. Inaeternum.

Still... the ‘Hope Initiative’. What a joke. I’ve already heard about certain community groups and organizations who are planning and implementing a mere twenty-four hours after Goldstone’s announcement. The sheep are practically tripping over themselves to try and get lined up to play Goldstone’s little lottery.

I’ve also heard gossip questioning why Blackwell Industries wasn’t at the gala. Not that I was invited, which makes me smile. Goldstone’s finally realized what he’s dealing with, and while he’s not being foolish, he’s not inviting the wolf into his hen house. It makes things tougher, but the thrill of having a worthy adversary is at least rejuvenating to my old bones.

My company won’t be participating in his Pollyanna schtick either way. Simply put, I won’t entertain such idiocy.

There’s a knock on my office door, and my new secretary opens to reveal Chief Frank Harris of the Roseboro Police Department. “Mr. Blackwell, your—”

“Show the Chief in,” I interrupt her, standing up and giving a rare, true smile. “Frank, it’s good to see you again. What brings you by?”

He gives a polite nod as he comes in. “Custis, how are you doing?”

“Do you really want me to answer that, Frank?” I ask, coming around to offer a handshake. He’s the only person to use my first name, or at least to do so and not suffer consequences. But he’s earned it, and I do have a certain fondness for the man.

Harris and I have been acquaintances for nearly thirty years, when I identified a smart, capable, but not totally honest police sergeant who could be very advantageous to me.

Over the decades, I’ve carefully nurtured our relationship, making sure that Frank’s been placed in the right opportunities. Never overtly, of course, I don’t want his good reputation within the community to be tainted with the scent of scandal, but when subtle pressures could be applied or information slipped to the Sergeant, then Lieutenant, then Deputy Chief, that could prove helpful to him... well, they were.

Frank, of course, isn’t totally innocent. He’s looked the other way plenty of times over the past thirty years as my plans have gone down, but in his mind, the net benefit to Roseboro far outweighs my . . . methods.

“I’m not too worried about how you’re doing, more like what you’re doing. The whispers and the names that I’ve heard around town over the past few months have... concerned me,” Frank says, sitting down, and I do the same. “But I heard something that might prove even more worrisome to you. Figured you’d want to know.”

“Oh?” I ask, tenting my fingers.

“There’s an investigator in town, a new one. And he’s looking pretty hard at you.” He delivers this news like it’s near-catastrophic. He is obviously surprised when I don’t react accordingly.

“So?” I ask instead, unperturbed. “I’ve had plenty of dogs come sniffing at my door. They get shooed away easily enough. That’s your job, isn’t it?”

“Not when they’re hired by Thomas Goldstone,” Frank replies. He’s one of the very few who knows of my hatred for the Golden Boy, though he doesn’t really understand why. Frank is a resource, and while I have a certain grudging respect for his skills, accomplishments, and contributions to me and to Roseboro... that doesn’t mean I’m going to share my thoughts on the matter.

“Then deal with it.”

For the first time in a long time, Frank shakes his head in refusal to one of my requests. “As much as I’d like to run this guy out of town for you, Goldstone has everyone at City Hall swinging from his balls right now. Hell, he’s reaching all the way to both state houses. I try and get in the way, I’m just going to get run over by the Goldstone freight train and they’ll just bring in some Feds or Staties. No offense, Custis, but I’m not going to play Sancho Panza to your Don Quixote.”

I purse my lips. “And do you at least know who this private investigator is?”

“The word I’m hearing is it’s some relative of his. But I can’t be sure, and the one name I’ve got... he’s bad news, Custis. I’ll put it bluntly. I’ve covered your shenanigans for thirty years, and you’ve done right by me for it. But if this investigator is able to connect you to some of the things that you’ve done—”

“I understand,” I reply, leaning forward though I know it’s a pressure move against someone I consider to be on my side. “If it helps you, Frank, I don’t blame you for wanting to cover your own neck.”

“It’s not just my neck. It’s this whole city’s!” Frank protests, his hand half clenching before he remembers his place. “Dammit, Custis, I know you’re a ruthless son of a bitch, but you’ve done a lot for Roseboro. I remember what this place was before you arrived, a two-bit suburb, not even worth stopping for gas in. Half the folks were commuting to Portland for work, the other half were on food stamps, drinkin’ down at the Mellow Tiger every night, and... this town was nothing. You made it better.”

“And yet it is Thomas Goldstone’s ass that they kiss,” I remind him subtly. “Frank, I want this problem taken care of. Remember, if I’m taken down, the fallout will not be simply confined to this tower.”

Frank pales but nods. “I’ll see what I can do. I’m the police chief, but there’s a limit to how far I can stretch the law and keep the spotlight off both of us.”

“I understand,” I reply, nonplussed. “Keep me updated.”

Frank gets up, reaching down to pick up a small brown bag that I noticed he brought in with him. “Here, Joan wanted you to have this.”

“Thank you,” I answer, knowing what’s inside. For some reason, Frank’s wife, a woman with a blinding smile and a sweet disposition, thinks I’m just an errant soul who needs a little more love and affection. Adopting me at arm’s length, for thirty years, I’ve put up with her misplaced affection, even though I can barely stand her.

I open the bag, my stomach curling in disgust when I see it’s a sugar cookie, carefully iced and decorated. I grit my teeth, not wanting to smash it under my fist until Frank is gone. The woman is always trying to get under my skin with some sugary message of friendship, a relationship that does not exist no matter how many times she invites me to dinner.

At the door, Frank turns. “I’ll be in touch.”

He leaves, and I carelessly toss the brown bag and cookie to the trash, my mind turning to each chess piece in play, each potential move I can make.

An investigator, funded by Goldstone himself and possibly related to him. Seems he’s not content to passively see what happens now that we both know the game is underway. My head start is hard-earned, through blood, sweat, and tears. Not my own, of course. Like any Grandmaster, I’ve sacrificed pawns along the way.

Perhaps it’s time to unleash another weapon. I have them in so many places already, sleeper spies ready to do my bidding here, instigate and interfere there. Machiavellian, of course, but by keeping the pulse on every corner of Roseboro, I can direct this town in any way I see fit. For its betterment, and my own.

The stroke of genius hits me, a cherry on top of my other plans, so to speak. With a smile, I pick up my phone, dialing a number I have only called once before.

The answering voice is filled with nerves. They obviously remember who this number belongs to. “Hello?”

“Proceed. When you have things in motion, call this number.” I hang up, imagining the click and dead air in the other party’s ear and their fortifying breath as they prepare to do as told.

“Soon, the world will see your true worth, Goldstone. And mine as well.”