The tires delivered an ear-piercing squeal as the car slewed around the corner, mounted the curb, buried its front end in a stubborn dumpster, and burst into flames. The police car following, couldn't correct in time, and clipped the end of the wreck, sending it into a flaming, spinning tumble into oncoming traffic.

When the fire trucks and the ambulance finally left, and the detectives had spoken to their last witness, a couple of patrolmen were designated to wait until the wreckage had been towed away, and to take down the police tapes.

At the station, the son of the detective killed driving the police car, listened to condolences from the men in the office, and the circumstances that ended in the unfortunate fatality. The detective's partner was in hospital with two broken arms and a fractured leg and severe concussion. Both suspects died when their car hit the dumpster.

Chapter 1 - Aspirations

At his home, Wendell Dankworth listened to the Police Chaplain deliver his dutiful comfort. "We have always known him as a strong and courageous police officer, liked by all, and who has always motivated us . . . he is certainly a big loss to all and will be missed." A calming hand rested on Wendell's arm. "There will of course be a full service funeral by the department, and you will have nothing to worry about while you collect yourself. Do you have plans going forward, Wendell?"

A sneer formed on Wendell's lips as he envisioned the person or persons who employed the men his father died chasing, keelhauled under the carriage of the wrecked police car.

"I have a few things that need attending."

"Would you care to share those, my son?"

"No."

"Uh- oh . . . well, alright then . . ."

"Thanks for coming, and could you let me know when the service will take place." He steered the flummoxed Chaplain out the door, and with a brief wave, closed it.

"He was just doing his job, Wendy" The woman leaned in the kitchen doorway, arms folded across her chest.

"I know, I know . . . and don't call me Wendy."

"Fine - Wendell. Mind letting me in on those few things you need attending? It's been a week and all you've done is sit at your computer."

"Jerome and I are going to find the bastards that started this whole mess."

The laugh was really part shock, as the woman stumbled away from the door, hands moving to hips.

"You and Jerome are what?"

"Don't start, Audrey. We are licensed private investigators now and, perfectly within our rights to investigate."

"You got those licences on line!"

"They wouldn't have been allowed if they weren't legitimate." He huffed a pout.

"Oh, Wendy . . ."

"Never mind, oh, Wend-ell. Dad poured a lot of his life into tracking these people, and now he's empty. Gone. I'm not letting that be for nothing."

Audrey Hall sighed and sat on the arm of the sofa, looking at her friend with a sad compassion.

"Wendy," she began, ignoring his correction, "you have no experience, no resources, and you're throwing away a perfectly good job, which you should realize, means no income, and therefore no funds to pay for this." She waved a hand about the room.

"Jerome's still working. So are you."

"This was a joint venture," she bristled. "Jerome is now spending his time supposedly helping you, and my job does not pay enough to carry this house?"

"I'll be getting something from dad's police fund and his own personal savings. Money won't be a problem."

"And what about our divided responsibilities? I'm not a housekeeper while you and Jerome take off playing detective."

"Audrey, my dad just died, okay. I need space. Things here will work out. Stop worrying and let me think."

"Swell, you're going to do something else you have no experience with." She stood and left the room, shaking her head.

******

"Dankworth and Weeble, Private Investigators. Oh, hi, Wendy. Huh? Sorry - Wendell. You okay? The service was a pretty big deal, eh?"

"I'm fine. yeah, it was a nice send-off. I want you to get those diplomas framed and the licenses and business cards printed out."

Jerome scribbled notes as fast as possible. "I just finished hooking up the printer, I still have to load the driver and--"

"Yeah, yeah. Just get it done. There are some frames in the bottom drawer of the desk, and a roll of laminate to put over the licences. Use card stock for everything."

Jerome pulled out the bottom drawer, banging his shin and swearing.

"Hey, it's not like I don't have other things on my mind right now. Printing out a few things isn't--" Wendell began.

"I banged my shin."

"Oh. Oh . . . so, you'll take care of that stuff, and I'll be in as soon as I can?"

"Fine. Take your time, partner."

******

Audrey had come back and was curled up on the sofa, staring at Wendell. "Are you serious? You're printing your own diplomas and licensing cards? You paid money to some nameless person for an online promise of accreditation, and you got the results in an email? Hello!"

"It was a three-week course," he snapped. "The man is an ex Federal Agent, and he has a whole page of testimonials. The diplomas are personalized, as are the cards, so it's not some Mickey Mouse program."

"No, it's Donald Duck. For heaven's sake, Wendy--"

"It's Wendell."

"If you ask me, it's sucker."

"Listen, Audrey, if you want to be part of our organization you need to show a little more respect."

"Excuse me? When was I hired onto this carnival?"

"Our secretary. We need someone to manage the office while we're out doing- doing business."

"Did it somehow escape your keen investigative mind that I am already employed?" She leaned forward, emphasizing the steel in her voice. "Did we not just have this conversation?"

Wendell walked to a safe distance and waved a hand. "We were thinking nights and weekends."

Her once pretty face contorted into a fusion of disbelief, shock, and anger. "We thought what?"

"You'd be reimbursed. I said money wouldn't be a problem. We're working on a pay schedule. You would have your own desk . . ."

******

"Grab a chair, partner, and take a gander at these." Jerome pointed to the framed diplomas and the laminated ID cards.

"Yeah, they look good."

"Whattsa matter? Siddown."

"I'm fine standing, okay?" Wendell massaged his flank.

"You told Audrey about the secretary business." Jerome nodded sagely.

"Fine. Yes, I told her, and I got an unceremonious boot out the door."

"Will she do it?"

"I'll need a couple of more meetings."

"So, meanwhile I have to do all the paperwork."

"Jerome, this is a partnership. One to which we each bring our own special set of skills. Yours happens to be here - in the office." The words faded away as Wendell finished.

"And yours are what, again?"

"It was my father that got killed, Jerome."

Both men fell silent, regret and embarrassment hung in the air. Jerome handed Wendell his new licence and then began positioning the diplomas on the wall.

"One above the other would look better." Wendell offered.

"Fine." Jerome pushed a large picture tack into the drywall and hung his diploma.

"Yours is on top?" Wendell asked, sarcasm oozing.

"I'm taller than you." Jerome snapped back.

As Wendell prepared another salvo, the phone rang, and both men stared at it, and one another. It rang again and they both made a grab for it.

"Deeble and Wankworth!"

"Dankweeb- give me the damn phone. Hello, yes, this is Dankworth and Weeble." Wendell glared at Jerome, and then pointed a threatening finger when he watched his diploma sail into the wastebasket. "Wendell Dankworth speaking."

Wendell sat slowly onto the office chair, his mouth opening as he listened. Jerome held out his hands in question, and frowned as Wendell hung up without speaking.

"What the heck was that? Who was it? Speak for Christ's sake!" Jerome looked skyward.

Wendell looked up at his partner. He wet his lips and spoke with a rasp. "It was a- a message to- to the white bread honky, and his black-assed buddy - back off."

Jerome straightened up, eyes wide. "His who- how--?"

"Do I know?" Wendell wiped his face with a shaking hand.

"I thought that was your skill set."

"Don't crack wise, Jerome. Our poking around came to somebody's attention, that's for sure."

"What did we do? Where did we poke? Black-assed buddy?"

"Somebody must have found out about us getting the police files. Whoever it is must also be afraid we might learn something in them."

"You think it's a cop?"

"I don't want to, partner. But it just makes me want to try that much harder."

"How? We don't even know who made the call."

"Maybe we do." Wendell grabbed up the receiver and hit star 69. There was a pause, and he heard the beeps of a number being dialled, then an automated voice gave the time, date, and number of the last call.

"Gotcha!" He entered the number into the reverse search in his computer and after several frustrated tries, learned that it belonged to Piper's Bar, an address in the downtown area.

"That's what my skill set can do, buddy."

"That could be anyone," Jerome slapped his hands next to Wendell's ear.

"Nice. Very nice. We'll go down and see if it was just anyone. This could be the break we need."

"Right . . . or the break we'll get."Jerome ran a hand over his shaved head.