Trouble in Paradise

“Trouble in Paradise”
Filton Sibley, Detective, No Case Number
Copyright 2019, Ric Jonsen

trouble cover copyIt started right after I got off “de plane” on what was supposed to be Fantasy Island. I didn’t even get my complimentary lei. Story of my life.

First, I noticed vacationers and locals in bikinis running everywhere, then I heard the gunshots. I had left my weapons in Chicago, not thinking I needed them for a tropical getaway. I crouched under the plane to survey the situation and heard more shots coming from a what can only be described as a two-story hut.

Then suddenly, there was utter silence. I saw cover to the right that would lead me around the building and took off in fits and starts to make sure I was protected in case gunfire erupted again. Another helpful skill they taught at police detective school, which was much easier than high school.

As I made my way around to the back of the building, I wondered how I had gotten into this mess. I didn’t ask for a vacation anyway. But had won a stupid contest somehow after a particularly rough case, my first as part of a new elite Chicago detective force. I had been a private eye for years since I “mostly” graduated high school in the late seventies. Heck, I had been one since I was a kid, and now joined four generations of Sibleys as police personnel.

I came upon several frightened bikini-clad ladies huddling behind some crates. I decided to forgo my usual charming introductions, or various successful pickup lines, mainly because I had tripped and fallen on my face right as I got to them.

Dusting myself off, I asked them if they were hurt and they shook their heads, but still didn’t move. I understood. Some madman with a gun was threatening their island paradise. Not being a seasoned detective like myself, they were not used to the savagery of gunplay, the brutality of evildoers, and the general roughhousery that ensued in these types of situations.

I gave them a quick nod as if to say Stay here and quiet. I’ll sneak up behind the culprits and put an end to all this, and maybe we could share a Mai Tai later? Then, I moved on to the back of the tall hut and found a stairway that went up to a door on the second floor. As I got halfway up the stairs, I could hear voices shouting.

“Give us what we want, and you’ll live to see another day!” The voice was shrill, but sinister.

“Quiet! I’ll do the talking!!!” Said another deeper voice, not quite as threatening, but even-toned. Likely the ringleader of the terrorists.

“We are doing the best we can,” came a scared reply. “It just isn’t in our power to give you what you want at this time.”

“We are doing the best we can,” came a mocking reply from the first shrill voice.

“I said quiet!” said the other.

Terrorists had likely seized control of the island, and were now threatening not only the staff, owners of this resort, but also my dang free vacation! There would need to be a reckoning!

I took a deep breath as I often did in these situations, whether it was busting in on Chicago mob bosses playing an illegal poker game with the highest stakes, jumping off a bridge into the freezing Chicago River to save a young lady who had been tossed in there by some evil genius out to rule the world, or starting to sort laundry when the piles got too high on my bedroom floor.

Throwing caution to wind, and possibly my all-expense paid vacation due to my death, I burst into the room ready for action, with no weapon except my fists, which had seen plenty.

“Whaaaat?” a parrot squawked and flew off the shoulder of a large man wearing a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and flip flops.

A man behind a counter gasped and then sighed. “Can I help you sir!?”

“Hey me first!” the large man asked, holding a piece of paper, and an empty ice bucket. “For the last time, I want to know what happened to my luggage!”

“Hey me first!” repeated the parrot. It still sounded shrill and sinister.

“What is going on here! People are scared to death out there!” I demanded.

The manager shook his head. “I’m sorry, as I was trying to help this gentleman we had a power transistor blow, Mister…”?

“Sibley, Filton Sibley.”

“Ah yes, Mr. Sibley,” the man in a lovely white suit and black tie smiled broadly, sweeping his arm around. “Welcome to Fantas…”

“Is this lost and found or isn’t it?” The large man interrupted, obviously tired.

“Lost and Found!” squawked the parrot, which I now realized was in fact more annoying than an actual terrorist.

“Mr. Sibley, if you would be so kind, let me take care of this man and his…pet.”

I unclenched my fists, the apparent danger passed, and looked around at the various gift store island trinkets while the Mr. Roarke lookalike dealt with the unhappy guest. The large man did not get immediate assistance, and although he was given some free drink vouchers, the man (and his parrot) walked out of the room grumbling.

“Now Mr. Sibley, please accept my humble apology for your harried arrival here on Fantasy Island. I think you will have a lovely time during your stay.”

Turns out he was right. Not only did I also receive drink vouchers, the lovely ladies I told him I rescued were part of my fantasy package. We enjoyed a lovely week of frolicking through beach waves, solving absolutely no mysteries, and drinking many, many Mai Tais.

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Case 476: Mother’s Day Mayhem

“Mother’s Day Mayhem”
Filton Sibley, Detective, Case #476
Copyright, 2019 Ric Jonsen

It was early, on a Sunday, so already two strikes against the day for as far as I’m concerned.  But at least it was a beautiful Chicago Spring morning, and as a confirmed night person, I didn’t always see a lot of mornings.

It was also Mother’s Day, and my mother and I followed the same routine we had observed every Mother’s Day for the past 13 years. Church, lunch at Billy Bob’s Cowboy Steak House, target shooting down at the police range…we had it all planned. Even though Mom had moved out of the city and we didn’t get to see each other that much, we made sure to be together on Mother’s Day every year.

She picked me up in front of my apartment at eight that morning and we hugged.

“It’s good to see you, honey,” she said, releasing me from her motherly hold. She then said the words everyone who has ever had a mother has heard. “You look like you’ve lost some weight, hon.”

“No, Mom, I weigh one-eighty-five, just like last year,” I answered.

“Well, you’re eating a loaded baked potato today at Billy Bob’s and I don’t want to hear another thing about it,” she said, turning the key in the ignition and pursing her lips as the car roared to a start. Hey anything topped with melted cheese and bacon is fine with me, so I didn’t argue. We headed north out of the city towards Mom’s Baptist Church in the suburbs.

I looked at my mother, noticing that age had not affected her persona. You would never guess this gum-chewing, steering wheel-tapping lady had just turned 60. She flipped through the radio stations until she found the Top 40 countdown.

“Oh, I love this song!” she shouted excitedly, and pumped up the volume. Unlike me, Mom had changed with the years. She had become a modern woman of the 80’s. After Dad’s death, she worked her way out of the house and eventually became an integral part of a legal office in the suburbs. She made good money (probably as good or better than Dad ever did) and I still beam with pride at her accomplishments.

She stopped tapping and singing and looked at her fuel gauge. ”Uh-oh,” she whispered.

“What’s wrong, Mom?”

“Almost out of gas,” she said, and turned into a gas station.

“I’ll get it Mom,” I volunteered, jumping out of the car when we had stopped. I walked up to the pump and inserted the nozzle into the gas tank. I leaned against the car as the gas pumped and my eyes moved over to the attendant in the small cashier’s booth. A car idled next to the booth and the door to the booth was ajar. My mind drifted off to other things.

Mom’s old Pontiac held a lot of memories. The time Dad ran over my first dog Fluffy. The day I was pretending to drive the car, and accidentally started it and drove into my bedroom. The drive-in movies where I would fart and blame it on my little brother. The time Dad ran over my second dog Fluffy II. Yes, this old car held many memories.

I finished pumping the gas, and walked over to the booth to pay. The attendant stood strangely upright behind the glass and smiled queerly.

“Ten bucks, unleaded,” I informed, sending my twenty through the drawer to him. He nodded, and winked at me. I looked at him. He winked at me again. ”Listen, fella, I think you have the wrong guy. Now just give me my change!” I ordered.

He mouthed something and pointed down with his hand close to his chest. I sighed. I know I’m a good-looking man, and I keep my body in tip top condition…besides the occasional beef and sausage combo of course. So even though I don’t swing that particular way, it was understandable that he was interested.

“Sorry buddy, I’m just not your man.” He scribbled a receipt and gave me my change through the drawer. I shook my head and retreated to my car. Then I looked at the receipt as I got into the car ­- and froze.

“What took so long?” Mom asked.

”Hmm,” I mumbled, thinking perhaps I wasn’t so attractive after all. I read the note aloud. “Please help me, I’m being robbed.” I reeled around in my seat to look at the booth. The attendant struggled with someone in the booth. I hopped out of the car and raced to the booth. The gunshot stopped me in my tracks. The attendant fell against the glass of the booth, as his assailant burst out of the booth with a bag and into his idling car.

“Mom! Move over!” I screamed, opening the driver’s side door.

“What in the world?” she asked, a little panicked as she unbuckled her seat belt and moved over to the passenger’s seat.

“That attendant was just shot! And that car holds the shooter!” I floored the accelerator in pursuit of the fleeing killer.

My mother’s car, while basically a big square metal box on wheels, rode well at eighty miles an hour. The killer tried to lose me several times, but each time I stayed with him. Mom enjoyed the wild car chase but worried about missing Sunday School.

“Don’t fret, Mom,” I said as we screeched around a sharp left, “I think we can catch this guy and still make the second service!”

Several police cars had joined the fray by now and we were heading toward the city. The Sears Tower loomed ahead as we roared down the expressway. I smiled.

“Now, he’s on my turf!” I shouted and changed lanes, driving up a ramp.

“You’re going to lose him!” Mom advised.

“No, I’m not, Mom! I’m just going to confuse him.”

The old “he takes the low road; I take the high road” trick. I sped up, weaving through downtown traffic at seventy miles an hour. By the time I came down to lower Wacker drive, he had just gotten there.

“Filton, don’t you wreck my car! I just had it washed.” Mom screamed. I turned in front of the killer’s speeding path. “He’s going to hit us!” she screamed again.

His car screeched to a halt just before hitting Mom’s side of the Pontiac. I pushed Mom down and climbed over her and out of the car. His car was empty, the door open, and other cars began to honk at our traffic blocking vehicles.

“Filton!” Mom shouted, pointing as she got out of the car, “there he goes!” Mom’s terrifyingly accurate vision had once again reared its head. She always had the most uncanny sense of sight and hearing of any person I have ever known. She once saw me mouth a swear word from a quarter mile away and sent me home to my room. When I got home, I locked my door, jumped in the bed, and whispered from under my pillow, I know you can hear me and I hate you!

“Well, Filton, are we just gonna stand here?” Mom queried, hands on her hips.

I looked around. The police were just about to pull up. Mom was right, the guy was getting away and I had to act.

“Stay in the car, Mom, I’ll get him!” I ran towards the streaking criminal following him into a nearby construction site. Using my deducing skills which I had attained over the many years of detective work, I followed the perfectly shaped footprints in the fresh mud. They led to a shack marked “Employees Only”.

With no weapon to speak of, except my wits, my hands, and perhaps some loose change I could maybe throw at him, I cautiously entered the shack. As I entered the dark room, a hand grabbed me and shoved me to the floor. The lights came on and the guy pushed a gun to my nose.

“Okay, hot shot!” he growled. “Just had to get involved in something that’s none of your business!” He cocked the gun, and smiled. “Now, say goodbye hero!”

I cringed and looked for a way to avoid this Mother’s Day Massacre. I didn’t believe what I heard next.

“Filton?” It was Mom. “Fil-ton!” Just like she used to call me in for dinner as a kid. Time froze as her voice echoed in my mind evoking memories of summer fun cut short by that voice. Her calling me meant that play time was over, although a lovely meal likely awaited.

I looked at the killer, who was looking around at her call.

“You heard my mom, play time’s over!” I shouted and knocked his gun away, kicking him away from me. He reeled back into a heavy laden shelf that tumbled its contents onto him as he hit the floor. Picking up the gun, I held it on him as Mom yelled again.

“Filton, I know you’re chasing a criminal son, but we’ve already missed church and if we don’t hurry, we’ll miss a good table at Billy Bob’s!”

“In here, Mom!” I answered. She opened the door and surveyed the room. Several cops entered after her. I showed them my badge and told them the story. They picked him up and put him in cuffs. As they took him out, Mom walked over to me.

“Well, you must be hungry after all that action, honey. Now come let your mother buy you a nice thick steak. You know, you really could put on a couple of pounds. You’re just too thin dear…”

She continued her barrage all the way back to the car but, in a way, I enjoyed it.

Every boy needs his mother. Whether he’s twelve and she’s making him wear those pants she’s let out five times and the K-Mart Special tennis shoes that get laughed out of school. Or whether he’s sixteen and she’s stays up until midnight to type a fifty-page report that’s due for school the next morning. Or whether he’s thirty-six and fighting for his life against a homicidal maniac.

Everybody needs their mother. Mayhem aside, I was so happy to be with mine on her special day.

And to be honest, I had secretly been craving Billy Bob’s Cowboy Steak House for months, and it did not disappoint.

Author’s Note: This story was written more than thirty years ago for my mother who passed away recently. I gave it to her for Mother’s Day all those decades ago, and it will always be dedicated to the special kind of mom and influence she was. She always encouraged my creative work, and I like to think she loved Filton almost as much as she loved me. Love and miss you Mom! Happy Mother’s Day!

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Case 234: The Chips Are Mine

“The Chips are Mine”
Filton Sibley, Detective. Case #234
Copyright 2019, Ric Jonsen

The scene was hard to take.

Not necessarily because a murder had happened in the small West Side Chicago apartment in the past few hours. Not even because the victim had been stabbed, and as stabbings go this was a particularly aggressive one. Blood splatter was everywhere.

The real tragedy was the snacks. The victim was just about ready for an afternoon movie. The classic movie channel was on and the TV still showing the black and white film. The couch looked comfy (probably more comfy without the blood spatter.) And to top it all off, a lovely array of snacks had been lined up neatly in the kitchen: cookies, popcorn, summer sausage, and even a kettle of Eddie’s Home Cooked Potato Chips, one of Chicagoland’s most revered delivered snacks.

Those snacks reminded me I was late for a dinner with my sweetie, but I did love me some Eddie’s chips. Just something about potato chips in a big greasy can delivered to your door by a sweaty man in a truck. Made me hungry for the Randall’s Ribs dinner I knew awaited me soon. Although to be honest, the pooled blood was making it difficult to think about extra barbecue sauce.

“And your name is?” Asked the medical examiner standing up from the body.

“Filton Sibley, CUDD,” I said proudly.

The small balding man blinked. There was an uncomfortable pause before I realized why he was not responding.

“Oh sorry, CUDD is a new division of the Chicago Police Department, stands for Chicago Upper Division Detectives.”

“Great. Sign here…legibly. I’m an old man and I don’t see as well as I used to.” He grimaced and handed me a clipboard with his findings: Murder. Clearly a man who loved his job. I signed myself as witness and officer on scene.

“I hate my job,” he sighed and took the clipboard, leaving as fast as possible.

Being a detective of previously stated newly upper division status, I surveyed the scene for clues.

I checked the rest of the apartment as the late spring sun set through trees and buildings outside the windows facing the city. The guy lived much differently than I did. No ungodly stack of clothes on the floor of his bedroom. No bathroom with mold everywhere. No kitchen with dishes piled up.

Neat freak.

He also had a disturbing lack of bills piled everywhere. No usual late notices and utility cutoffs like normal people. No warnings from landlords of eviction. This guy was some sorta goody-two shoes.

My detecting was interrupted by a loud shriek at the door. A red-headed woman was screaming at the top of her lungs. I would say we held her back, but it was just me and Pete Smith, the officer who had been called to the scene and “standing guard” at the door. But I rarely touch people, and Pete was just pretty lazy.

She approached the victim and frantically danced near the body.

“Now miss,” Pete said, “Please don’t touch the body.”


“We are still investigating that ma’am,” I said, half-heartedly hiding the chips with my body in case she saw them and wanted them too. “May I ask when the last time you saw Mister….” I had forgotten his name. I looked to Pete who just shrugged.

“Allen, Trevor Allen” she said. “I think it was maybe this morning. I asked him if he wanted to do something today but he said he had a date.”

“Apparently it was Katherine Hepburn,” Pete said, nodding towards the TV.

“Who is that? I’ll kill her!” The redhead snarled. Pete rolled his eyes.

“So that made you angry, Miss…?”

“I’m Shirley, and…well, yeah. I know he was buying a ring and I thought it was for me, but then he said he had a date so…”

“So,” I began my usual detective wrap-up where I solved the case dramatically in front of the killer, and an audience…even though that audience was just Pete Smith. “You came to see who he was having a “date” with, saw the comfy couch, saw the TV on, not to mention this lovely array of snacks.” I paused and moved in front of the snacks in case either was as hungry as me.

“Then,” I continued grandly, “you killed him in a fit of rage!”

“No, it wasn’t me! I swear!” She started to cry. “He was alive when I left.”

He was alive when I left. The oldest line in the book. Well, actually the oldest line in the book was “No it wasn’t me, I swear!”

“Hey, what’s that?” Pete asked, looking at the coffee table. He reached down and picked up a bloody knife hidden under the body.

“Oh my god!” Shirley screamed. “Someone stabbed him!”

I reached down and picked up something else. I sighed.

“What is it?” Pete asked.

“I rarely miss sausage,” I admitted. I loved sausage. If I die from something other than an evil mad man’s dastardly plot, my family has instructions to say “If only he hadn’t eaten so much sausage” at my funeral.

I looked down at the carpet that started at the living room area, including the part that wasn’t tacked down properly.

“He tripped, dropped the sausage, then fell on the knife,” I said dejected, big reveal thwarted by the facts. “He must have nicked an artery.”

“So no murder,” Pete said.

The sausage in my hand reminded me I was going to be late if I didn’t hoof it to the Gold Coast.

“Get her statement,” I said, and tried to get by Pete quickly into the hallway.

Pete looked out of the door after me. “Hey Filton, whatcha got there?”

I kept walking hiding the can greedily in front of me.

“Under the circumstances I left the sausage, but the chips are mine!”

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Case 356: Doing The Holiday Limbo

limbo2I awoke groggy. The dirty scumbags that I must have fought last night did a number on me. I felt terrible.

I pulled myself to the kitchen for some juice–something, anything to erase the feeling in my mouth that a bird had built a nest in there. I pulled my Phillip Marlowe coffee mug I bought at Navy Pier out of the sink. It was mostly clean.

Plopping down in my easy chair, I sipped on the cold OJ looking out my State Street window. It was spitting snow outside on a cold, gray Chicago day after Christmas.

Ah, Christmas. OK, never mind the scumbags.

I slowly remembered as the late morning haze wore off that I was at my Mom’s all day yesterday for Christmas day in Oak Lawn and had a little too much ham and Christmas drink. Plus my brother Tommy and I had got into a spirited game of Ice Ball, our unique version of football and basketball outside on the driveway hoop. I dominated as usual…but at what cost?

“Oww!” I screamed out loud, trying to reach the spot behind my neck that hurt.

Ah, there’s no place like home for the holidays.

This was that weird stretch of days between Christmas and New Year’s. Surreal days where everything is different, and stores are open and closed. Some folks are working, some aren’t.

I know I’m not.

After returning from Europe, and wrapping another quick case (the intense turkey giveaway scandal involving many big wigs at Jewel grocery stores, including their marketing director-turned evil crime lord), my boss had given me the holidays off. That case had ended, as they usually do, with an extended chase though Chicago and a prolonged gunfight (as well as a knifefight, a slapfight, a regular fistfight, and a nasty bit of name-calling.) But I brought the bad guys to justice in the end—as I am wont to do.

So, now what?

The juice was doing its job. I was slowly waking up to the morning, which would only last about seventeen more minutes now since it was 11:43 am.

(From Filton Sibley, Detective in the book Interludes of Evil: Doing the Holiday Limbo. Filton is assigned to protect a witness before a big trial, but things go awry, as you might imagine. And yes, there is limbo dancing…)

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The Final Struggle

I’ll be honest – it was quite a fight.

My guts felt like they were about to burst, as I took blow after blow from my opponent.

No matter how I tried to attack; no matter how expertly I wielded my weapons; both hands stabbing and cutting…I knew I was losing this battle.

It was a futile exercise; one that I knew I would not win on this brisk night on the Gold Coast in Chicago.

All of my detective skills, my fighting techniques, and my keen sense of balance were no good to me here.

I leaned back, and stared at my slick opponent. Yes, he was a greasy one.
And then burped loudly. Everyone in the restaurant turned, shocked at my rudeness.

“Salute to the Chef?” I shrugged.

Dropping my knife and fork into the pizza pan in defeat, I paid my bill and exited Due, the sister deep-dish pizza restaurant of the world famous Pizzeria Uno, one of Chicago’s oldest traditions. My stomach slightly proceeded me into the chilly night air, the Lake Michigan wind biting at my face from a few blocks to the east.

I smiled and said to no one, “Ah, Chicago. My kind of – ”, and then I burped again.


(From “Interludes of Evil”, a Filton Sibley, Detective Novel by Ric Jonsen. Now available for FREE at Smashwords, and Lulu. Coming soon to all digital stores, free!

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Case 339: A Lovely View

My grip weakened on the slick metal of the helicopter landing ski.  The pilot jerked the machine left and right trying to shake me.  In minutes, I would be free-falling into lovely downtown Chicago.  You would think I could find something better to do on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.

But no, I had to be chasing another millionaire-who-wants-to-control-the­-world type. Of course I had been stupid enough to jump on a helicopter taking off a 34-story building. But I wasn’t about to let this guy slip away again. I tossed my arm around the ski, and peered up at the copter cabin.

A hand opened a door and pointed a pistol down at me.  I swung my body like a kid on the monkey bars.  The gun fired, the bullet rushing by my chest.  With the next swing I catapulted my legs to kick the hand with the gun.

The gun fell away from the copter, but my foot got caught in the open door. We swayed as the helicopter fought against the misplaced weight. A twisted face looked out to laugh at me. With my other leg, I caught his neck in the scissor lock, an old trick I learned from Saturday morning wrestling. It wasn’t all fake, you know.

He gagged and I pulled hard. He tumbled out of the door and caught a ski with one hand. As he dangled, he looked at me as if apologizing for shooting at me, punching me, and other thug-like things as I closed in on his employer the past few weeks.

I kicked him dead in the face and he fell away from the copter, screaming.

“Apology not accepted,” I said, and waved bye-bye to him with my free hand.  I watched him splash into Lake Michigan as the pilot had flown us east out of Chicago.  Methodically, the craft flew lower and lower to the water.

My feet grazed the water as the copter fought the lake wind to skim across the lake waves.  Spring had sprung in Chicago, but the lake felt like hard ice.  Any lower and I would be broken like a china doll skipped over concrete.

Above, the door swung closed and open again. The copter dipped toward the water again and I made my move. Not a great one, but it was a move. I swung up as before, straddling the door upside-down. My head now just a few feet from the water, I reached for the cabin entrance.

There was shouting as someone moved towards the door. I pulled the small pistol in my tennis shoe out and fired towards the opening. With a burst of stupidity, I dived into the helicopter.

“Get him!” Johnstone screamed as I struggled to stay in the seat. I made a quick survey of the cabin. Another goon sat bleeding next to me. Johnstone, the millionaire in question, sat in front with the pilot. Only the nephew, Willy, remained in the back. A pistol shook in his hands.

“Now Willy,” I tried, knowing the kid was scared. He was only sixteen, but Johnstone had used him as a goon. The kid wasn’t ready for this kind of action. “Don’t let your Uncle make you into a killer. He’s the one I’m after. Not you.”

“Shoot him, Willy!” Johnstone yelled from in front. The copter shook heavily. Willy tumbled back and the gun went off. The pilot slumped in his seat. Johnstone turned to the controls quickly as the copter trembled and began to spin.

I fell towards the open door. Willy let go of the gun and clutched the seat next to him. In front, Johnstone struggled to pull the copter up. Below the choppy waves of Lake Michigan grew closer, but Johnstone held the copter steady and finally willed it upward.

Grabbing Willy’s gun, I pointed it at Johnstone. “Give it up, Johnstone. We’ve got all the evidence we need on you, now.”

“Like what!!?” He said, defiantly.

“We have the recovered drug shipment signed in your handwriting and witnessed by 34 men. We have rescued four hostages from your estate. Not to mention the home video you made about how you plan to take over the world and admitting to all the crimes.”

“What did you think. Nice video, eh?”

“Well the camera was a little shaky, but I would rent it for a dollar.” I cocked the gun. “Now. Adventure’s over. I’m taking you in.”

“You seem to forget whose driving this thing, Mr. Sibley.”

“What difference does that make?”

“I don’t know, I saw it on Barnaby Jones once,” he shrugged, then pulled the stick to the right.  I tumbled to the edge of the seat and my legs went out the door.  The gun slid out of my hands as I hung on.  He laughed.

“You see, as always, I am in control!”

I huffed, climbing back in. Ahead, Chicago loomed as he flew back into the city. Weaving in and out of buildings, I sat near the white-faced Willy. He was too scared to move.

The craft slowed to a hover over an abandoned construction site. Johnstone turned with a small pistol in hand. “Well, I would love for you to take me in and to go to prison, but I have places to own, people to be.” He signalled for Willy to get out. He did, quickly. “You see Mr. Sibley, in twenty four hours I will have a new face, a new name, and I will find a new way to acheive the power I crave.”

He cocked the pistol and smiled. “Goodbye, Mr. Sibley!”

The craft shook as a bullet ricocheted off the door.

“No! Willy, I’ll shoot him,” Johnstone yelled, turning back to the controls frantically.

The craft wobbled as he lost control and I tripped backwards and out of the helicopter. I landed eight feet below, hard. The copter hovered and weaved in the air. Through the flying dust and debris I could see Willy standing over me with a gun.

I gulped as he cocked the gun and looked at me with a cool eyes that belonged to a young boy robbed of a real childhood. Then he turned and took aim at the copter only a few hundred feet away. He fired three shots. The third hit the fuel tank of the copter. Willy hid his eyes from the explosion. I stood as pieces of metal fell to the ground and the shell of the copter landed on a detriorated brick building.

Willy dropped the gun, shrugged, and looked at me. “He was a lousy uncle.”

(From “Interludes of Evil”, a Filton Sibley, Detective Novel by Ric Jonsen. Now available for FREE at Smashwords, Lulu, Nook, iBooks, and more)

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“Snowpocalypse”? Really people?

Ice builds up along North Avenue Pier while temperatures hovered around zero degrees Fahrenheit on January 7, 2015 in Chicago, Illinois. Most of the city’s schools were cancelled today as wind chill temperatures were expected to exceed -30. (Scott Olson/Getty Images)

Every year I hear the same thing. People in Atlanta, or Nashville, or some place south of Louisville start ranting and raving about the snow, ice, or cold -as if it’s the newest thing.

Welcome to Chicago. We may not be the coldest city (I had a case once in North Dakota in the winter, and…they win), but we know cold here. We don’t cry and bitch and moan. We just deal.

It’s just frozen water, c’mon.

Just the other night I had to a chase a suspect through the slick wintry mix streets shortly after a good pounding of snow. I wore a thin parka, but still the cold bit through. I was slipping and sliding all over the place, but then so was the perp.

I cornered him in an alley. He slowly turned, defenseless. Except for his huge shotgun.

“Some winter huh?” I said, smiling. He didn’t smile back. That’s when I went completely third grade on him. I dived behind a snow covered dumpster and grabbed some white stuff.

Now I don’t usually brag about this kind of thing, but I have always been able to make a pretty mean snowball. I don’t throw them badly either. My little brother Tommy had come in from the cold with many a whelp on his face, much to my mother’s chagrin.

The top of the dumpster exploded and I realized that I was about to be the one with whelps tonight. (I should always remember to bring my gun, even when I’m just going down to the Jewel to get some snacks and toilet paper.)

He fired another shot that covered me in snow, but gave me just the cover I needed. I rolled out from behind the dumpster and beaned him in the face with an icy snowball. He reeled back and I got to my feet, firing another iceball that hit him right in the eye. Before he could even get his gun back up, I was on him and pulled the shotgun out of his hands.

I gave him one more head shot, this time with the butt of his own gun. He slipped on the ice and fell back, hitting his head once more for good unconscious measure.

Yeah, snow and ice can certainly be dangerous. Much more so when you’re a two bit meatball trying to play mobster and you’re up against the Official Snowball Fight Champion of Forest Lawn Elementary! (There was no real title, but everyone remembers I’m sure!).

The new Filton Sibley book is on virtual shelves everywhere. Find it here >

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