Gone To Glory. Ron/Janet Benrey

of the “good guys,” too. Her investigation would ensure that justice was done in the upcoming lawsuit. All eyes were focused on McKinley Investments—but no one thought about the insurance company that stood behind the firm. If McKinley Investments were forced to pay damages to Glory Community Church, the money would come from the Chicago Financial Insurance Company. As one of three investigators in the Loss Control Office, Lori had the job of making sure that the claims were legitimate.

      Why are ordinary folks so willing to cheat insurance companies?

      It was a question that Lori had often asked herself during her three years on the job. In assignment after assignment, she’d seen “honest people” file false claims. Every new investigation made her more skeptical, more willing to be suspicious of everyone involved in the case.

      Mistrust is an occupational hazard for someone with your abilities.

      Lori took pride in her surveillance and investigatory skills. She had acquired them during a twelve-year stint as a special agent in the U.S. Army’s Criminal Investigation Division. The formal photograph of her in a dressblue warrant officer’s uniform looked just as soldierly as the picture of Colonel Daniel Hartman that currently resided in her computer.

      Too bad he’ll never get to see the photos side by side.

      Lori’s earpiece blared once more. “Who ordered the egg salad on rye?” Christine asked.

      “That would be me,” George said.

      “Then you must be the pork barbecue on a roll, with all the trimmings.”

      “Guilty as charged, Counselor,” Daniel said.

      Lori heard a stream of crumpled-paper sounds—followed by a series of chomping noises—that made her feel hungry once again.

      “We might as well get started,” Daniel said. “Does anyone have anything new to report?”

      “Well…” Christine replied. “First, I can report that I’m making good progress learning about securities law. I’m researching as fast as I can—this isn’t the kind of law I’ve practiced before.”

      Lori sniggered. “That’s nice to know.”

      Christine went on. “Second, I’ve verified that Quentin Fisher had a great reputation. I haven’t found a hint of other deceptive business practices anywhere in his long career. There are no other complaints against him. I wonder why he chose the church to begin his crooked practices?”

      Lori murmured, “Now, that’s an excellent question.”

      “I assume we’ll learn why as our lawsuit progresses,” Daniel said, “which brings us to the main item on our agenda—the lawsuit itself.”

      “Quentin Fisher,” Christine said, “had a duty under the law to recommend suitable investments to the church. He breached that responsibility when he sold us excessively risky corporate bonds. We planned to spend the money within a year or so—we needed good, safe, shortterm investments.”

      Lori retrieved a tablet computer from her camera case and began to jot down notes about what Christine said should some of it be useful later.

      Christine continued. “The church signed a brokerage agreement with McKinley Investments that says all disputes between the parties will be settled through binding arbitration by a panel of arbitrators rather than a courtroom trial. The upside of arbitration is that it takes months instead of years. The downside is that we can’t appeal a decision that goes against us. However, the great majority of advisor lawsuits are settled before arbitration begins. That’s our goal.”

      “And ours, too, honey,” Lori muttered. She adjusted her earpiece, which had slipped out of the center of her ear.

      THREE

      Daniel Hartman hated prisons. During his years as an Army chaplain, he had visited prisoners in dozens of Army stockades. His trip to see Tony Taylor in the Albemarle District Jail, in Elizabeth City, took him to his first civilian lockup, but he knew exactly what to expect: the clank of steel doors, the embarrassment he felt as he passed through the metal detectors, the harsh lighting in the green-painted meeting room that would give him a headache, the smell of sweat that seemed to permeate the air, the hint of disinfectant and the oppressive atmosphere that he knew would stay with him long after his return to Glory.

      Daniel put up with it all because Tony had changed his mind and requested his visit. At first, Tony had wanted no one but his lawyer to “see him caged up,” as he put it. But yesterday, surprisingly, he had sent a message via his lawyer: “Please visit ASAP. I need your help.”

      Daniel had mentally prepared himself by praying for thirty minutes in his office and again during the drive along State Route 34A. But he was still surprised by Tony’s appearance. Daniel felt a wrench of anguish to see Tony, who usually wore fancy vests and cashmere sweaters, dressed in a prison jumpsuit. The big man, a retired naval officer, seemed to have diminished in size. Worst of all, his expression seemed beaten down and more than a bit hopeless.

      “Hello, Tony,” Daniel said. They were required to sit on opposite sides of a small metal table. “No handshakes,” the correction officer had said. “No contact.” The officer had left them alone, but he was watching through a glass panel in the door.

      “Thanks for coming,” Tony said. “You don’t have to sugarcoat your words—I know I look like an abandoned shipwreck.”

      Daniel decided to go along with Tony’s wishes. “I’d ask how you’re doing, but your appearance speaks volumes. You look like you aren’t sleeping well.”

      Tony’s shoulders sagged. “I mostly lie awake at night thinking about the Glory at Sea Marina. The work’s got to be piling up. I can’t expect my wife to do it for me. Rebecca puts in backbreaking hours at the hospital.” He shook his head. “If I don’t get out of here soon, I’ll lose my business.”

      Tony slapped his palm against the tabletop. The noise reverberated through the small room. “I shouldn’t be here. I didn’t kill Quentin Fisher. I had nothing to do with the accident at the marina.”

      Daniel nodded, not sure what to say.

      “Ask yourself this, Reverend. Why would I want to kill Fisher? He hadn’t succeeded in cheating me. All I cared about was getting the church’s money back. For that, I needed him alive, not dead.” He held up a finger. “But…if I had wanted to kill the skunk, why would I choose a method that put my whole marina at risk? The explosion could have easily started a fire that engulfed all of the docks.” He held up a second finger. “And another thing—I’m not stupid. Why kill Fisher in a way that calls attention to me?”

      Daniel nodded again. Everyone in Glory had theories about the “accident,” as Tony called it. The facts, such as they were, had been widely reported in the Glory Gazette and on local TV stations.

      Three weeks earlier, Tony’s personal boat—an elegant 23-foot-long classic wooden runabout named Marzipan—had exploded at Tony’s marina. There wasn’t any uncertainty about the explosion itself. Gasoline vapors had collected in the bilges and inside the boat because of a leaking fuel line. A random spark had ignited the vapors and triggered the explosion. The real mystery, however, centered on why Quentin Fisher had been sitting in Marzipan’s cockpit when the small boat was consumed by a fireball that shot more than fifty feet into the air.

      Quentin Fisher had become Tony’s financial adviser a few weeks prior. All their dealings had been over the telephone or in the conference room in the McKinley Investments office in Greenville.

      Quentin had no reason of his own to travel to the Glory at Sea Marina on the day of the explosion. He was there because Tony had sent him an e-mail inviting him to the marina. The police had subpoenaed Tony’s Internet records and had found a copy of the e-mail in the “Sent Messages” directory on Tony’s computer.

      Tony interrupted Daniel’s musing. “I can see the wheels in your head turning, but none of the so-called