Chapter 1

"Yes, sir… Well, I would be happy to take a message, sir. If I could just have your name..."

Even through the mostly closed door of his office, Joe could hear the exasperation growing in Chet's voice, which was both odd and surprising. Chet was usually completely unflappable, dealing with impatient, angry, or devastated clients with compassion, empathy, and a stash of dark chocolate drops he kept hidden in one of his desk drawers.

I guess he got enough practice dealing with us over the years, Joe thought. Although, he never soothed me with chocolate. His mouth watered at the thought of the drops, and he stood and pushed his chair back. Can't hurt to check on him, right?

By the time he got out from behind his desk and over to the door, being very careful not to disturb the piles of folders on the floor, Frank was already standing beside their friend, his eyes watchful as Chet flipped through a small notepad.

"Sir." A note of steel went into the word, and Joe started. While he regularly heard that tone of voice from Frank, it was unusual coming from Chet. "I need to know..."

He moved closer, caught between curiosity and concern, and mouthed "Who is it?" at Frank. His brother's dark eyes flickered up then back at Chet, his shoulders raised in a mute shrug. Frank's mouth was drawn into a hard line.

Chet pulled open one of his desk drawers, drew out a small spiral-bound notebook, and started flipping pages. "Sir, I need to put you on hold for a moment. Thank you for your patience." He blew out a breath. "Wow, this guy won't take no for an answer."

"Who is it?" Frank's arms were crossed over his chest, a look of irritation on his face.

"Don't know." Chet shook his head, his eyes skimming the pages as he rapidly turned them. "He won't give me his…" He stopped and pointed at a line on the page, showing it to Frank. "That's the one. I knew the gallery name sounded familiar."

Frank's eyes widened, then narrowed. He looked up at Joe. "Von Ormond."

Joe's blood ran cold. "Von Ormond?! That G-d damned piece of..." He reached over the desk to grab the headset from Chet's head, but Frank beat him to it, lifting the device to his ear and mouth with lightning speed.

"Mr. von Ormond, this is Frank Hardy." Frank's voice was an icicle, and all sound ceased from the headset. "We informed you by letter we refuse to work for any gallery that employs you and wanted all communications from you to cease. If you call our office again, we will file a restraining order with the police and instruct our lawyers to sue you for harassment and stalking. Am I clear?" He paused only long enough to take a breath, not waiting for an answer. "Good." Then he disconnected the call.

Chet let out a breath, his color slowly returning to normal. "Wow. That guy's a piece of work. Wouldn't let me get a word in edgewise. I can see why you canned him as a client."

Joe barked out a bitter laugh. "That's not why we canned him. 'Piece of work' doesn't even begin to cover what he did. That son of a…"

"Joe." Frank put his hand up. "Not the place, little brother." He let out a breath and raked his hand through his hair. "I don't know about either of you, but I feel the need for a drink. Chet, do we have anything else scheduled today?"

Chet shook his head, stunned both at the statement and the vehemence in Frank's voice. "Nothing. No appointments until tomorrow."

"Good," Frank said, smoothing his hair back down. "We're closing early." He nodded toward his still-seething brother. "Joe can't go home to Kara like that, and you need to know why we won't ever work for that one" – he jerked his head toward the phone – "ever again." He looked down at their friend, a bitter half-smile twisting on his lips. "We probably should have told you this story sooner. There's a pub on the way to the subway station." He turned and walked back to his office, stopping just before he entered. "Stick a sign on the door, and get your things. It's going to be a long afternoon."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

By the time they got to the pub, ordered drinks and some food, and commandeered a quiet table near the back, Frank felt calm enough to take a sip of his whiskey rather than down the whole thing in one gulp.

Joe, on the other hand, grabbed his glass, poured its contents down his throat without sitting down, then headed back to the bar.

Chet held his beer between his hands and watched his friend storm off. He took a sip from his glass, then put it down and pushed it to one side. "So, what did this guy do?"

Frank held his glass in one hand, gently swirling the amber liquid. "You know how we get a lot of art gallery jobs? Designing and updating their security systems when the exhibits change?"

Chet nodded.

"His was the first gallery that hired us." Frank took another sip from his glass, his eyes tightening as he swallowed, then set it down. "He was in charge of exhibitions at the Michaels Gallery. They had a large installation coming in from an 'up and coming'" – he made air quotes with his hands – "artist and needed to update their security for it."

"So they wanted you. Wise choice." Chet glanced at Joe's back as he leaned against the bar waiting for his drink, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. "When was this?"

"When we first started out," Frank said. "It was a fantastic opportunity for us to get our name out there."

Joe returned holding a bottle of craft beer in one hand and a fistful of peanuts in the other. "Yeah." He sat down, taking a long pull from the bottle as he did so. "Fantastic. Right." Sarcasm dripped from his words.

Frank nodded at him. "You might want to slow down, there, little brother. I want you to get back to Kara in one piece."

Joe acknowledged his words with a wave of his hand. "The first one was medicinal. This one's to drink."

Chet cleared his throat. "So, what happened?"

Frank sighed and turned his gaze back to Chet. "Right after they hired us, I got called away for a freelance job with the Bureau." His eyes flickered to his brother, one eyebrow lifting slightly. "So Joe had to solo it. It didn't go the way we planned."

Chet looked at Joe, then picked up his glass. "And I'm guessing 'not the way we planned' means that things went wrong?"

Joe snorted then took a long pull from his beer. "Wrong enough to make sure we never work for that bastard again. Ever."