Chapter 11: Gladstone

The Haldoran estate looked like it had swallowed half of Gladstone.
A long, winding driveway cut through perfectly trimmed hedges and flowerbeds that looked manicured by mathematicians rather than gardeners. The house itself — pale stone, tall columns, windows big as storefronts — screamed money loud enough to shake the street below.

Detective Dan Whitaker stepped out of his unmarked sedan and straightened his tie. He hated places like this. Too clean. Too still. Too full of secrets.

The front door opened before he reached it, as if someone had been watching from a window.

Frank Haldoran filled the doorway — a slab of a man, broad shoulders, powerful hands, jaw like it was carved from concrete. He wore an expensive shirt that still couldn’t hide the fact he looked like he could break someone in half and not sweat doing it. Beside him stood Ginger Haldoran, tall, elegant, rail-thin in a silk blouse and pearls. Her smile was warm, but her eyes were frost. Behind them hovered their attorney, David Riley — a middle-aged man in a wrinkled suit, dark circles under his eyes like he’d slept three hours in the last three months.

“Detective Whitaker,” Frank grunted. “Come in.”

The foyer was marble and chandeliers and wealth pretending not to brag, even though it absolutely was. They led Whitaker into a spacious sitting room that looked like no one actually sat in it. A coffee table held untouched glasses of water, but no one offered him one.

Whitaker took out his notebook. “I’ll make this as painless as possible.”

Frank leaned back in his chair, spread out like a king on a throne. “Ask.”

“What was your relationship with Joseph DeCarlo?”

“Rivalry,” Frank said flatly. “His family tried to muscle into construction. Never could beat my bids.”

Whitaker nodded. “Any reason Joseph’s Corvette would be outside your warehouse the night it burned?”

Frank snorted. “You tell me. Maybe he was pissed about losing contracts. Maybe he was poking around.” He spread his hands. “Or maybe someone dumped it there to set me up.”

“Seems convenient,” Whitaker said calmly.

Ginger shifted in her seat. “We only used that warehouse for storage. Tools, lumber, some equipment. Nothing important enough to burn.”

Whitaker turned. “Surveillance footage?”

Attorney Riley spoke up. “All equipment in the warehouse was destroyed. Cameras included.”

Whitaker wasn’t surprised. He’d guessed that much.

Frank added, “There are other buildings in that area with surveillance. Look there.”

Whitaker shook his head. “Most of those cameras are old. Footage is grainy. Nothing we can rely on.” He didn’t mention the blurry figure walking from the flames — one that might have been Jaxson Lee.

Ginger crossed her legs. “Are you sure it’s even Joseph in that building? Has the body been confirmed?”

“No official confirmation yet,” Whitaker said. “But the car’s a strong indicator.”

Frank leaned forward. “You find who torched my property and why. That’s what I care about.”

Whitaker held his gaze. Frank cared — but not in the way he claimed. Whitaker could feel it.

He switched topics.“Let’s talk about the party at the Taj Mahal. Same night as the fire.”

Ginger perked up. “Oh, I planned the guest list. Caterers too. But I let Pamela Stockman handle the actual event. I wasn’t feeling well, so Frank attended alone.”

Whitaker nodded. “Frank, you were there the whole night?”

Frank smiled lazily. “Course I was. Ask anyone on staff.” He lied smoothly. Whitaker didn’t show he knew that.

Attorney Riley cleared his throat. “Detective, if there’s nothing else—”

“One more thing,” Whitaker said. “Do you recall a man named Harvey Miller?”

Frank’s jaw ticked. “Yeah. Worked construction for me. Hard worker. Liked the drink too much. Women too.”

Ginger’s lip curled. “He was a pig. Brought a prostitute to our Christmas party last year. Treated her horribly. Made a scene.”

Whitaker leaned in. “How?”

Ginger’s voice sharpened. “The way he held her arm. Tight enough she winced. And when she spoke? He corrected her in that low, grinding voice men use right before they hit someone.” She shuddered. “I hated him.”

Whitaker scribbled notes. “You hear about his death?”

Frank shrugged. “Heart attack, right? Shame. But that lifestyle catches up with you.”

“Funny coincidence,” Whitaker said. “His death might be connected to something we’re looking into.”

Attorney Riley cut in sharply. “Detective, let’s stay on subject.”

Whitaker stood. “I’ll leave you to your morning.”

As he walked toward the door, something tugged at him. He turned back.

“Oh — one more thing.” He paused. “Do any of you know Jaxson Lee?”

Ginger didn’t hesitate. “Of course. We hire him for events sometimes.”

Frank added casually, “Clients like him. Charming. Good at working a room.”

Whitaker’s voice stayed light. “What does he do, exactly?”

Frank shrugged. “Public relations? Networking? Something fancy. I don’t ask.”

Whitaker’s eyebrow lifted. “Interesting.”

Frank scratched his chin. “He was introduced to me by Kirk Lawson years ago.”

Whitaker blinked. “Kirk Lawson. As in Mayor Lawson?”

Attorney Riley practically exploded. “And that’s enough. You have nothing tying Mr. Haldoran to a crime. Stop digging for headlines and start finding who destroyed his property.”

Whitaker gave a slow, polite smile.

“Thank you for your time.”

He stepped into the hall, the door shutting a little too fast behind him.

Outside, the July heat wrapped around him again — sticky, heavy, real.
He started the car and waited a moment before pulling away.

Jaxson Lee worked their parties. Harvey Miller worked for them. Joseph DeCarlo died on their property. And the mayor was the one who introduced Jaxson.

Whitaker exhaled. This wasn’t just a warehouse fire. This was a fuse —and someone had lit it.

© 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.