My name’s Cass Raines. I’m a PI in Chicago. There’s nothing too complicated about it. People come into my office with a problem and I see if I can get them out of it. Most of my days are routine, boring even. I have a handful of steady clients I conduct background checks for, I run down scofflaws, (child-support skippers are the worst) and when business is slow, I hand out summonses for a law firm. All mundane stuff, until it isn’t.

I can handle that part, too, just saying. I’m an ex-cop, Chicago PD. I know how the city works. I know where the dirt goes to hide. I work alone. I work fast. I know how to handle myself. I’m never itching for a chance to prove that, but it’s good to know I’m covered. Though there are doubters.

Take yesterday, I was sitting at my desk tossing bills into pay now and pay later stacks when a woman walks in, nicely dressed in a St. John suit, lavender. She looked to be in her mid-forties, salon blond, thin lips, brown eyes, good shoes, designer bag. Right off the bat she looked skittish. Her eyes darted around as though she expected someone to jump out from behind the fichus, which told me instantly she was way off her regular patch. I figured she was from some North Shore suburb–Lake Forest, Barrington, somewhere like that–where they have horse trails and tony tennis clubs and not a lot of people who looked like me. Anyway, she sort of creeps in, tentatively as though I might bite.

The shocked expression on her face told me she’d expected me not to be black. I assumed she assumed that Raines Investigations stenciled on the door had to go with a white face, a male face, a not-black-female face. I said hello. She said hello. She then asked to speak to the detective, C. Raines. I knew then she hadn’t been referred to me by anyone who knew me personally. Maybe she’d done a Google search? That’s how I’m listed — C. Raines, Raines Investigations. When I told her I was C. Raines she did that head-to-toe sweep thing that was always part dismay, part disappointment, like she’d had her heart set on Magnum PI and what she saw didn’t come anywhere close to that.

I let her grieve for a moment. I mean, let’s face it, who can compete with Magnum? My nickname as a kid was Bean, short for String Bean, which tells you a lot. I filled out some, sure, but at 34 I’m still lanky and wouldn’t win any weightlifting titles. People often assumed I was a lawyer or a teacher until they caught sight of the holstered Glock at my side or I pulled out Cop Face.

The woman stood there, I guess deciding whether or not to unburden herself or go home. I leaned back in my chair, swiveled a bit, and waited for her to call it. I wasn’t desperate for business at the moment. There were the summonses, after all. Whether she stayed or went was entirely up to her.

“You’re black,” she said. “And you’re a woman.”

Just like that. That’s what she said. You’re black. And you’re a woman.

I folded my hands in my lap, nodded. “Yes. Is that a problem?”

She walked further in, clutching the bag, like I might jump up and snatch it; like it held something precious like a baby or a check for a million dollars.

“I expected you to be a man. Aren’t PI’s men?”

My eyes narrowed. I stared at her. Though her suit and shoes were flawless, her makeup, on closer inspection, appeared as though it had been hastily applied by a shaky hand. Her eyes were hollow, vacant, red rimmed. She’d been crying. I noticed the faint hint of alcohol. I leaned forward, smiled. “No,” I said. “Not all. I’m Cass. How can I help you?”

She just stood there. Maybe still not sure if I was the one she wanted or needed. She breathed in, held it, and then exhaled slowly. “Are you good?” Her tremulous voice came out in a near whisper. I had to strain to hear it.

I stood, squared my shoulders. Our eyes held. “Yes.”

She unclutched the bag and took a seat in my client chair but didn’t sit back. She perched on the edge like a jumpy catbird, her eyes wandering, her legs shaking. When her eyes landed on mine again there was a plea in them. “There’s a man. He wants to kill me. Please. I don’t want to die.”

I sat, pulled a pen and notepad from my drawer, my grip on the pen so tight I threatened to break it in two. The woman was petrified. No one, no one ever should have to live with that kind of fear. “He’s not going to kill you,” I said. “You have my word on that. Now, tell me. What man?”

See? Told you. Mundane, until it isn’t.

You can read more about Cass in Broken Places, the first book in the NEW “Chicago” mystery series, coming May 29, 2018 from Kensington.

Former cop Cass Raines has found the world of private investigation a less stressful way to eke out a living in the Windy City. But when she stumbles across the dead body of a respected member of the community, it’s up to her to prove a murderer is on the loose . . .

Cops can make mistakes, even when they’re not rookies. If anyone knows that it’s Cass Raines, who took a bullet two years ago after an incompetent colleague screwed up a tense confrontation with an armed suspect. Deeply traumatized by the incident, Cass resigned from the Chicago PD, leaving one less female African-American on the force. Now she’s the head of a one-woman private investigation agency, taking on just enough work to pay the bills. She spends the rest of her time keeping an eye on the tenants in her little Hyde Park apartment building, biking along the lakefront, and playing chess with the only father figure she’s ever known, Father Ray Heaton.

When Father Ray asks Cass to look into a recent spate of vandalism at his church, she readily agrees to handle the case. But only hours later she’s horrified to discover his murdered body in the church confessional, a dead gangbanger sprawled out nearby. She knew Pop, as she called him, had ticked off plenty of people, from slumlords to drug dealers and even some parishioners and politicians, with his uncompromising defense of the downtrodden. But a late-night random theft doesn’t seem like much of a motive at a cash-strapped parish like Saint Brendan’s.

The lead detective assigned to the case is all too ready to dismiss it as an interrupted burglary gone awry, just another statistic in a violent city. But Cass’s instincts tell her otherwise, and badge or no badge, she intends to see justice done . . .

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Meet the author
Tracy Clark works as an editor in Chicago. Her fiction has been published in mystery magazines and anthologies. A native Chicagoan, she has never once put ketchup (God forbid) on a hotdog and she likes her pizza deep, not flat. When she’s not editing, reading, writing, living, she’s wandering around Chicago’s neighborhoods scouting out good places to (figuratively) stash a body. Visit Tracy at tracyclarkbooks.com.

All comments are welcomed.