Where Do I Go? (46 page)

8. The setting of this story alternates between a
luxury penthouse
and a
homeless shelter
. In what ways do these settings symbolize what's happening in the story itself—with Gabby in particular, but also some of the other characters (Philip . . . Lucy . . . Estelle . . . etc.)?

9. In spite of what happens in the last chapter, what do you see as glimmers of hope for Gabby? Do you think there can be any redemption for Philip? Why or why not?

10. In what ways do Gabby's encounter with Lucy in the first chapter and their encounter in the final chapter act as “book-ends” to this story? What are the similarities? What is the significance of the differences?

To my readers . . .

Thanks for joining me on this new journey. Don't know about you,
but this one knocked the wind out of me! Hang on for the next episode
in the Yada Yada House of Hope series,
Who Do I Talk To?
coming out
in September 2009.

Until then . . . be blessed!

The Yada Yada Brothers: A New Series

BY DAVE JACKSON

As her life unravels, Gabby Fairbanks, whose story is told in
Where Do I Go
?, finds a friend in Harry Bentley, the affable doorman of her luxury Chicago high-rise. What she doesn't realize is that Harry lives with his own drama—a forced retirement from the Chicago Police Department for blowing the whistle on corruption in the elite Special Ops and a budding romance with the fascinating Estelle Williams.

Through Estelle, Harry meets the Yada Yada brothers—Denny Baxter and his son Josh, Peter Douglas, Carl Hickman, Ben Garfield—who provide a new circle of friends to replace his old CPD cohorts. But when Harry discovers he has a grandson he didn't know about, will he find the faith to take on the boy as a “second chance” to be the father he'd failed to be to his own son—even when the boy creates new dangers in Harry's fight against corruption, and may derail his “second chance” at love?

Enjoy the following short story, an introduction to
Harry Bentley's Second Chance
, the first Yada Yada Brothers Novel.

Dave Jackson lives in Evanston, IL with his wife, Neta, the author of the popular Yada Yada Prayer Group series and the new Yada Yada House of Hope series.

» To order the novel
Harry Bentley's Second Chance,
ask your favorite bookstore to order it for you (ISBN # 9780-9820544-0-6) or go directly to
www.daveneta.com
.

Harry Bentley's Second Chance

Cindy Kaplan pulled the unmarked cruiser into the lot behind Chicago Police Headquarters and found a parking space. She left the engine running, the whine of the air conditioner cycling on and off to beat the summer's heat. But sweat still glistened on the bald head of the older black man sitting beside her. In the four years they'd been the salt-and-pepper duo in the elite anti-gang unit, she'd seen the frown lines between his eyebrows deepen into permanent grooves. They'd watched each other's back, covered for one another on little things, and saved each other's life more than once, but now she was afraid she was losing him.

“Harry,” she sighed, brushing back the shock of straight, ash brown hair that fell perpetually over her right eye, “you know you don't have to do this. What's to be gained? Really . . . think about it. Even if you make your case against Fagan, your career's over the moment anyone finds out you blew the whistle.”

She saw him glance at her out of the corners of his eyes, then he sighed. “Cindy . . . in all the time we've ridden together, when was the last time I backed down over somethin' like this?”

She shrugged. “Well, when was the last time we ever faced something like this? I know you're a straight-up guy, but this is different. Different than anything we ever faced before. Fagan's popped guys for less.”

“Oh, come on.” He tugged at the vest under his shirt that always seemed too tight in hot weather. “Don't start trippin' on me now, partner. We don't
know
that for sure 'bout Fagan.”

“Maybe not, but we've heard it more than once. Why take the chance? I mean, given what we've actually seen Fagan do, why wouldn't he smoke you if you tanked his little racket?”

She watched the big man lean forward again, cradling his head in his large hands, his elbows on his knees, face inches from the air-conditioning duct in the cruiser's dash. She could imagine him sitting like that in his little apartment for hours struggling over what to do and she knew if she talked him out of it now, she might save his life but crush the self-respect he had rebuilt.

When he leaned back again, he stared straight ahead. “Look, Cindy. I'm goin' on up in there to make my report like I said. I'm a lot of things, but I ain't no quitter. What Fagan and his crew been doin' ain't right, and someone's gotta shut him down. You young. You got your whole career 'heada you, and I wouldn't be s'pectin' you to put that on the line. But me? It don't matter what happens to me no more. This is just somethin' I gotta do. Know what I'm sayin'?”

He turned and looked at her, dark eyes glistening. She could tell his emotions were churning when his speech got “homey,” as he called it. She broke eye contact, not wanting to embarrass him.

“Don't worry 'bout it,” he added, his voice a little husky. “No way am I gonna drag you into this. I'll make sure of that.”

“Harry, that's not what I'm saying. It's you I'm concerned about.”

“I know, and I 'preciate it. But I gotta do it. No way 'round it.”

She heard the door click open. He turned once more and gave her a little mock salute, grinning like a school boy. “See you. I shouldn't be too long.” Then he stepped out of the cruiser and headed for the Office of Professional Standards.

“Detective Bentley, please sit down.”

It was a warmly decorated conference room, not a police interrogation cell like so many in which Harry had spent hours questioning suspects. But as he took his seat on the other side of the polished mahogany table from the three “suits,” he felt like he was as much on the grill as any perp.

“I understand from this report that you feel there's been a few problems in your Special Operations Section.”

“That's what it says. But . . .” Harry looked back and forth at the three of them. “Perhaps you gentlemen would be so kind as to let me know just who I'm speaking with before we dig in too deep.”

“Of course. I'm Captain Roger Gilson, chief investigator for the IPRA. And”—motioning to the man to his right—“this is my assistant, Carl Handley.” He turned to his left. “Bill Frazer sits in on these hearings as counsel for the city. And that little tape recorder between us is here in place of hiring another court recorder . . . Tight budget, you know.”

Harry Bentley slid his chair in a little closer. “You did say this was the IPRA, the
Independent
”—he emphasized the word as he raised one eyebrow—“Police Review Authority, right? Even though two of you are from the department and Frazier, here, represents the city?”

Entirely
independent.” Gilson waved both hands over the table “ like an umpire signaling
safe
. “We have no contact with any of the line officers, completely insulated. And we take orders from no one, not even the mayor's office.”

Harry rolled his eyes . . . not in Chicago, but he took a deep breath and plunged on. “As you can see from my report, I've been in the SOS for six years. At first we were doing a lot of good putting away dope pushers and gangbangers. And there are still good men and women in the unit, don't get me wrong. But it's been taken over by rogues, particularly . . .” Harry took a deep breath. “Particularly Matty Fagan.”

“What do you mean, ‘taken over'? This Fagan, he's your boss, isn't he?”

“Yeah, Lieutenant Matthew Fagan. Irish, you know. Likes to be called Matty. But . . . well, if you read my report, it details three raids where we had no warrants but broke into citizens' homes anyway. On two of those occasions we found large quantities of drugs, cash, and weapons. We confiscated them all but did not make any arrests—probably couldn't have made them stick with-out warrants. But a short time later, all that contraband disappeared, back onto the streets. Then—”

“Mr. Bentley,” interrupted Frazier, the lawyer, “you lost me there for a minute. How do you
know
this money and dope and guns ended up back on the street?”

Harry rubbed his hand across his smooth head. “I don't have any proof about the drugs, but they did disappear. And I'm sure the money went into the pockets of a few members of the unit, because they talked about it—”

“Wait, they
talked about it
? And you think they'll admit to that?” Frazier snorted.

“ 'Course not. But the guns . . . now there I have evidence. I recorded the serial numbers from those guns, and three weeks later I pulled one off a perp. The number matched! It's even in my arrest report.”

The three investigators looked at one another. “Harry,” said Captain Gilson, his voice confidential, “would you consider any of the men in your unit your enemies? Any racial problems going on?”

Harry's gut clinched. He wasn't about to dignify that one with a direct answer. “Captain, look at my report again. We had no war-rant for the third incident, either. Didn't find any drugs
or
weapons. But we did find $6,420 in a Ziploc bag in the back of an old woman's freezing compartment. Fagan walked out of the house with the woman's money in his pocket. No criminals apprehended. No arrest. Just a raid!”

“Why didn't you say something at the time?”

“Oh, I did. But Fagan shrugged it off. ‘It's drug money, Bentley. Those gangbangers do it all the time—stash their cash with grandma, auntie, or their girlfriend, wherever they think we won't look. Well, we looked and finders, keepers!' That's what Fagan said.”

Gilson leaned toward his assistant and mumbled out of the side of his mouth, “Fagan's probably right.”

But Henry heard him. “You think so?” Intensity furrowed his brow even deeper as he hunched forward over the table. “You think I don't know that happens all the time? I'm no rookie. But that's not what happened
this
time. I'm tellin' you, this old woman wasn't holdin'. Even if she was—whether that was drug money or not—Lieutenant Fagan had no right taking it for himself. This kind of thing happens all the time with him. The guys talk, but on these three occasions—the ones in my report—I was there. I saw it go down. And I'm willing to testify.”

Captain Gilson busied himself flipping through Harry's report. “Okay, okay, Bentley. Let's say everything in your report's accurate—”

“It is!”

“All right.” Gilson held up his hand. “I just want to ask, why are you entering a complaint
now
?” He turned both palms up in a help-less gesture. “A lot of people might consider your unit a service to the community even if it does cut some corners, know what I mean? They're happy for an all-out war on the scumbags. But here you are, turning on your own. Why?”