In Search Of
by Marc TeatumIn Search Of
Originally published on the Substack platform in serial form beginning in June of 2024, the last chapter was released in April 2025 and can be found at here.
A woman who makes her living fixing problems shouldn’t be unusual. But if those problems start at a downtown law firm with clients that have problems, well, then the managing partner in this firm knows who to call to get the job done. She is unusual, and sometimes that’s exactly what’s needed.
This crime thriller/relationship exploration story is filled with love, loyalty, betrayal, abandonment, and redemption. Set in Boston and around New England, and it’s all about the woman owner of an independent security company and her need to balance a dangerous current assignment and a developing new love. Twice divorced, the only child of blue-collar hard-working parents, she is skilled in covert operations, a master of surveillance, goes deep in research, rides a motorcycle, is skilled in martial arts, has the charms of both a snake and a nun, could sell an eskimo ice cream and Satan a space heater. Amazingly competent, at least on the outside. On the inside, she’s as insecure as you or I.
When she’s hired to transport a priceless collection of jewels from Boston to New York City, the job seems simple enough. But adding in the dowager owner of the gems who demands to be along for the ride, her back-biting, greedy, selfish children who want want want all the money that their mother has now, as well as our heroine’s new love met on the side of the road, plus a cast of other criminals and unindicted co-conspirators, and you’ve got a recipe for an easy job to turn into a disaster.
Throughout this book, our heroine and the new love interest remain nameless, referred to only as “She” and “He”. Names immediately conjure up a mental image in readers minds, so in this way, using only descriptions of these characters, you, dear readers, get to complete the visual on your own.
Chapter 1:
The night is dark, early for this time of year it seems. Maybe it’s the cloud cover, blocking the half moon that sits high up and away, maybe it’s this part of town, an area that developers haven’t discovered and raped in the name of progress and growth. Street lamps that have the wattage of a flashlight and a third of the storefronts vacant tend to create shadows that outnumber the pools of light. Nothing good ever dwells in the shadows. The mystery of the blackness rarely hints of happy times. Around here, anxiety runs high and imagination runs rampant, often for no reason other than the fear of the unknown. The smell of inactivity in the air isn’t as bad as that of the old garbage strewn about or the puke from doorway dwelling drunks trying to sleep off the too much cheap whiskey purchased with the coins collected from rattling coffee cups along the sidewalks for hours. But it doesn’t fill the senses lovingly like floral and fauna.
The city feels half asleep as the office workers have all headed home and the urban dwellers have yet to come out as a high powered custom motorcycle sits all alone idling, rumbling, at a traffic light for no one else. Its rider is sheathed in black leather from head to toe. The flat black full face helmet matches the paint job on this machine as the rider’s boots stand flat on the rough pavement below. The red light from the signal overhead draws a thin line down the center of the visor almost cutting the head perfectly in half.
Most times there’s a feeling of accomplishment, of satisfaction, when a job is done and delivered. Most times. In the private security business, those times are few and far between. More often than not when you present the final report, everything just turns to shit. Tonight was one of those times. Telling one business partner that the other was robbing him blind and lying about it for years never goes over well. Having to slide your chair back to stay out of the path of flying bottles of beer as two guys leap over a table at each other, clawing, swinging and cursing isn’t like Shakespeare in the Park. People suck and relationships that start out with such promise often fall apart when dishonesty, envy, and greed get in the way. Or maybe sometimes it’s just the fault of an addiction. Drugs. Gambling. Sex. It doesn’t matter. Each can destroy lives, make people do things to loved ones that they normally wouldn’t do. Addictions can turn saints into assholes. And this particular job was just another testimony to weakness.
Picking neutral ground to deliver bad news is always a good idea and tonight’s ‘on it’s way down’ tavern was the perfect choice. Neither party had a stake in the business, so it couldn’t have been used as fuel for starting a fire as in: “See all this? If it weren’t for me, none of this would have been possible.” Or the corollary of “See all this? If I didn’t take a chance, all this would be lost”. Sometimes hints of revisionist history and justification are as dangerous as a fifty caliber gun on top of a Humvee in a foreign land. The only way a professional can survive is to play the center of the road, ride the yellow line, don’t pick a side. You don’t care who is right or who is wronged. As long as the payment is made in greenbacks at the time of delivery, the two of them could tear each other from limb to limb. Just don’t care. Just take the money and walk away. It’s a helluva way to make a living, but it’s better than floral arranging. And as the dust starts to rise, a good investigator knows when to collect the fee and walk.
In this case, it was immediate and quickly. Then it’s out the door and be on your way.
The light turns green and the thunder of the machine echoing off the granite office buildings is deafening as the bike launches and grows louder and deeper as the motor works its way upward through the gears. It’s a comforting sound for the rider leaning onto the entrance ramp to a short tunnel that exits the city and empties out onto the North Shore of Boston.
Forty minutes of fast paced riding along streets that were originally cow paths; nothing in a straight line, weaving along oceanside roads that are a series of hard turns, brings the bike closer towards home. Racing the waves that crash on the sand, zooming up a side street in a beachside town and into a condominium development that sits high on a hillside, the rider hits a small button on the handlebars and the garage door on one of the units slowly rises and the sound of the engine is once again thunderous in this small suburban cave. The garage is spartan by choice, the space is designed for this machine alone, with a workbench at the end, a large rolling tool box on one side, and a hydraulic motorcycle lift taking up the other. The floor is flat gray coated with an industrial grade paint and there are stereo speakers in all four corners. Two six foot long fluorescent light fixtures illuminate the room. The bike comes to a halt and the door behind closes quickly. The rider hits the kill switch, turns the petcock valve to the gas line and using the thick heel of the black boots, knocks down the kickstand, leans the machine over to one side in a smooth routine movement. Dismounting and pushing a button on each of the hardcased saddlebags, a mechanical ‘ppzzzzttttt’ sound fills the void where the rumble of the motor was moments before. Reaching over, the rider extracts a padded laptop case from one side, and a neatly folded karate gi with its black belt tied tightly around it, from the other. Placing them both on the floor, the rider pulls off the helmet and her long thick black hair tumbles out. She hangs the bucket on the wall to the side of the door and runs her hands through her hair to give it life again.
Punching in the security code on the lock to the interior of the house, She turns the handle and steps inside. A deep breath and She feels the comfort that can only come from a place that is home. Yet it feels as empty as the city just left behind. The contrast of the quiet now to the rumble of the past journey doesn’t go unnoticed. She lives alone by choice, as she likes to remind herself and any of the few close friends she has when they want to set her up on a blind date. Standing in the dimly lit hallway, she reaches for the light switch to bring visibility to space only to feel a hand on her left wrist.
“I’ve been waiting for you” is whispered into her ear, as a man’s bulky body is felt pressing in from behind.
Dropping both the laptop and the gi, she spins to her left, grabs the hand that grasps her wrist and pivoting in the reverse direction while pushing back, she takes control by pinning the man against the wall holding both of his hands at his sides.
Staring the man straight into his eyes, she says “I knew giving you the combination to the front door was a big mistake”.
He forcefully raises his arms straight out along the wall, knowing that his reach exceeds her grasp, and using long strides and the weight advantage, he steps toward her and now it is her turn to be pinned against the opposite wall.
“That’s not what you’ll say in the morning” he says as he leans down to kiss her lips as he relaxes his grip on her and reaches for the zipper of her leather jacket.
Just as his mouth is reaching hers, she grabs the front of his shirt and sweeps her right leg under the man, and he falls to the floor of the hallway.
Standing over him, she says, “Let’s just see if you last until morning, Jimmie” as she finishes unzipping her coat. She sheds the heavy leather, revealing a snow white tank top against her olive toned skin tucked neatly into her pants.
Dropping the jacket on top of the man, she steps over him and heads to the stairs to the upper level of the condo that houses the kitchen, living and dining rooms, “I hope that at least you made me one of your fabulous Mai Tais?”
Pulling the garment off his face and watching her long legs in the leather pants move away, he comments “Don’t I always take care of you?”
Tossing her thick black hair as she turns to look back over her shoulder at him on the floor, “Yeah right, like you’re in any position to take care of me” she laughs.