The Major's Wife (Jubilant Falls series Book 2) by Debra Gaskill

consisted of two, possibly three, rooms. The room I stood in was unfurnished, except for a telephone that sat in a corner, swirled in electronic umbilical cords; in the other stood a brass coat tree with an expensive suit jacket hanging on a wooden hanger.
    "What can I do for you?"
    I turned around to see a beefy, barrel-chested bull of a man, at least six feet tall, coming from the other room. The sleeves of his custom-tailored shirt were rolled halfway up, exposing muscular, grizzly bear arms. His hands looked huge and lethal as he wiped them on a paper towel.
    There was something in the face, something I couldn't put my finger on, but I felt we had met before. He recognized me, too; there was a glimmer of recognition in his narrowed black eyes.
    "Hello, I'm Marcus Henning, with the Jubilant Falls Journal-Gazette ."
    "I know who you are."
    "Oh?"
    "You're a reporter."
    Maybe that was it. I had seen him, or he had seen me at one of those idiot social functions I was forced into covering. Still, he didn't have that practiced air of boredom I had seen so often. There was something feral, something raw. I couldn't figure it out. Ignoring all my instincts, I extended my hand in greeting.
    "I need to speak with whomever is in charge of Aurora Development residential rental property."
    "That would be me."
    "And you are?" Like an old gunslinger, I pulled my notebook from my back pocket.
    He opened his mouth, then closed it again. "I work here," he said finally.
    "You don't have a name?"
    "Not to you." The fuzzy hulk in the fancy shirt balled up the paper towel and tossed it into an empty corner.
    "What exactly do you do?"
    "I run the place."
    "I see. Well then, sir, a woman named Elizabeth Kingston claims to rent from your firm. Is that true?"
    The goon cocked his head and thought for a moment. "Yeah. She's a tenant."
    "She claims to have contacted you repeatedly about the condition of her apartment and that you or your firm have refused to make repairs."
    "Aurora Development insists on keeping their rental properties in excellent condition." A prepackaged PR answer. He knew what I was after.
    "I'm surprised to hear that." I wish I could remember where I met this Neanderthal. I flipped a page on my pad and began to read the list of needed repairs. "My investigation of her apartment shows two broken windows, a semi-functioning toilet, peeling paint and wallpaper. That doesn't sound like excellent condition to me."
    "Nine times out of ten, it's the tenant that tears those places up like that."
    "I see. Do you recall being contacted by Miss Kingston to make repairs?"
    "I couldn't understand her if she did." He’d talked to her, alright. Otherwise he wouldn’t know about her speech impediment.
    "That doesn't mean she deserves substandard housing. You know there are also two children residing in that apartment?"
    "So?"
    "What if that littlest kid decides she's a little hungry and has some paint chips for lunch? What if she's done it three times a week for the last three years? What would happen then? What do you think a steady diet of lead-based paint does to a kid’s brain?"
    He shrugged.
    "It causes brain damage. I guess you won't mind if I take some of those paint chips down to the health department and have them analyzed for lead content?"
    "Listen buddy—" He stuck a hairy finger beneath my nose. "There’s no need to make threats here."
    "When was the last time the fire inspector came through that place? Or does Aurora Development pay off the local inspectors? Can I assume repairs will be made, or at least well underway by September first?"
    "That's next week! I can't—"
    "If you can't get started on them, the Journal-Gazette is prepared to run the story on the front page. Do I make myself clear?"
    The miscreant stepped back. "I understand."
    "Then I can contact Miss Kingston and assure her work will begin immediately?"
    "Well, I have to contact my supervisor."
    "And who is that?" I poised my pen above my paper.
    "It's, ah," he