Chapter 7: Pressure

 Night pressed against the windows of the KCPD bullpen, turning the glass into dark mirrors that reflected tired detectives and stacks of paperwork. Detective Dan Whitaker sat at his desk, phone cradled between shoulder and ear, listening to his captain’s increasingly sharp tone.

“Yes, sir,” Whitaker said, jaw tight. “We’ll be there first thing.”

He listened a moment longer, eyes fixed on the crime board — the burnt skeleton of a warehouse, an incinerated body, and the photograph of Joseph DeCarlo, grinning in his cheap suit like he’d already gotten away with whatever he was planning.

“Yes, sir. I understand. Thank you.”

He hung up just as Ray Mendez stepped into the bullpen, shrugging off his coat. He dropped a small notebook on the desk and rubbed his eyes.

“You look like hell,” Whitaker said.

Mendez snorted. “You should’ve seen the people I talked to all night.”

Whitaker leaned back. “Singleton wants us in his office tomorrow morning. The mayor is leaning on him. Chief too. They want answers.”

Mendez gave a humorless laugh. “Of course they do. Half the city’s power players were at that party. Last thing they want is some mob flunky going up in flames on Haldoran’s property.”

Whitaker gestured to the chair across from him. “What’d you get from the Taj Mahal?”

Mendez sat, flipping open his notebook. “Mostly drunks, egos, and people too rich to remember their own names. But I found a waitress — Laura Harper. Real talker. Says Haldoran throws these parties a few times a year. High-end crowd: senators, CEOs, big money from all over the Midwest.”

Whitaker nodded. “And DeCarlo?”

“She didn’t see him. But she said these parties always have… ‘extra entertainment.’ Men and women. People who mix with the guests. Quietly.”

Whitaker raised an eyebrow. “Prostitutes.”

“Bingo.”

Whitaker straightened. “And Jaxson Lee?”

“She’s seen him there before,” Mendez said. “More than once. Says he knows everybody. Talks to them like they’re old friends. Makes himself unforgettable.”

Whitaker rubbed his chin. Jaxson Lee — whoever he really was — seemed to have a talent for being useful in a room full of secrets.

“What about Haldoran?” Whitaker asked. “He hosting the whole night?”

Mendez hesitated — a flicker of something on his face.

“Yeah… about that.” He pushed the notebook closer. “Laura said Frank made his big entrance, said his hellos, smiled for a few cameras, and then—vanished.”

Whitaker frowned. “Vanished?”

“She swears he left early. Left with one of the young men working the party. After that? No one saw him come back.”

Whitaker leaned back in his chair, a slow exhale escaping him. “So Haldoran wasn’t at his own party for most of the night.”

“Nope.”

“And the warehouse caught fire just after midnight.”

“Yep.”

They exchanged a look — quiet, sharp, and full of unwelcome possibility.

Whitaker tapped his pen on the desk. “You think DeCarlo was there to torch the place? Maybe settle the score for the Giannettis?”

Mendez leaned forward. “Maybe. Or maybe Frank caught him doing it, killed him, and burned the evidence.”

Whitaker shook his head. “If Frank planned a murder, why leave a trail of half the Midwest’s elite who saw him at that party?”

Mendez pointed. “Because he wasn’t there.”

Whitaker rubbed his forehead. The timeline wasn’t adding up — which meant someone was lying.

“Haldoran stonewalled me today,” Whitaker said. “So did the Giannettis. Neither one wants to talk about DeCarlo or that warehouse.”

“You think they’re working together?” Mendez asked.

Whitaker scoffed. “Hell no. They hate each other. Haldoran cost the Giannettis a multimillion-dollar construction bid. You think Salvatore Giannetti forgets something like that?”

Mendez considered that. “So maybe DeCarlo goes rogue. Tries to do a little damage. Overplays his hand. Gets caught.”

“Or,” Whitaker countered, “DeCarlo wasn’t burning anything. Maybe he was meeting someone there.”

“Someone like Jaxson Lee?”

Whitaker stared at the photo of the warehouse — the burned-out shell, the melted beams, the scorched concrete floor.

“Tomorrow,” he said, standing. “We verify Haldoran’s alibi. Every minute of it.”

Mendez nodded. “And I’ll start with the list Laura gave me. Might be someone out there who knows exactly who left that party with Frank.”

Whitaker grabbed his coat. “DeCarlo didn’t just drive his Corvette to an empty warehouse for fun. Somebody lured him there.”

Mendez headed for the exit. “And whoever that somebody is — they’re not done yet.”

Whitaker looked back at the board before turning off his desk lamp.

“Tomorrow,” he muttered, “we crack this open.”

© 2025 James William Jackson III. All rights reserved. “Jaxson Lee” and all related content are original fictional works created by James William Jackson III. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locations is purely coincidental.