Daring Time

ONE

His partner Ramiro Menendez turned and stared at him, his mouth gaping open comically. Ryan suspected his own face shared the same expression of stunned incredulity. He felt like a wide-eyed kid in a candy store.

"You got an effing ballroom in your house."

"Yeah. I noticed. Strange place for a cop to live, huh?" Ryan murmured as he studied the enormous room in the Prairie Avenue mansion. He'd just received the keys from his old professor and good friend Alistair Franklin this morning. When he'd told Ramiro as they left their west-side gym that he planned to stop by and take a look' at his awesome, totally unexpected windfall that evening, Ramiro had said he wanted to join him.

Sunlight spilled from a row of four exquisite stained-glass windows, casting a landscape of rosy light and trellis-like shadows onto the mahogany floors. For a brief moment, Ryan Daire perfectly envisioned what it must have been like: the crystal chandeliers alight with newly installed electricity, a fire leaping in the marble-encased fireplace, the ladies in their gowns and jewels, the men in their evening attire, the rich, acrid smell of fine cigars, the tinkling sound of champagne glasses being removed from a tray.

A woman wearing a blue satin gown with a black fur border stood by the grand piano.

She glanced over a creamy shoulder and met his stare, her velvety dark eyes amazed and a little alarmed. She spun around, gifting him with the vision of full, satin-encased breasts contrasting with a waist so narrow he could have almost encircled it with his hands. A silver locket glittered on the flawless skin of her chest.

Ryan blinked the sunlight out of his eyes and the ballroom returned to its former barren state.

Christ. This old house must have really fired his imagination.

"I thought that old guy who gave it to you said it was fine if you sold it," Ramiro said as he walked over to the fireplace, slightly bent his tall frame and stood completely erect in the enormous hearth. He looked out at Ryan and laughed.

"He did, and I will sell it eventually. The heating bills alone would probably break me,"

Ryan mused as he glanced around appreciatively. The property description he'd received from Alistair's lawyer said the paneling, floors, staircases and wainscoting in the late-nineteenth-century mansion were all imported African mahogany. The stained-glass windows had been designed by Tiffany's greatest rival, John La Farge. Even Ramiro had been stunned into an uncustomary silence earlier when they'd gotten their first glimpse of the sweeping, majestic grand staircase.

Ryan couldn't help but feel a stab of pride at actually owning the stately old jewel. The regal bearing and elegance of the house spoke to something deep within him.

"Hey, you know what we should do? We should turn it into a gym," Ramiro suggested, pausing as he walked toward Ryan and, crouching into sparring position, gave a tight jab with his fist.

"Right. Put up a boxing ring and fill the ballroom with a bunch of sweaty, smelly guys.

Maybe we could turn on the Tiffany chandeliers and hire a string quartet for matches."

Ramiro gave a sharp bark of laughter. Their loud footsteps on the wood floor echoed hollowly off the barren walls. Ryan wondered idly what the elegant ghosts of the past would think seeing he and Ramiro stalking along the corridors—a spic and a mick storming the grand entry hall like a couple of bulls in a china shop.

The sun had sunk below the horizon, leaving the old house draped in shadows so thick they seemed to have weight.

"It'd be amazing. Tons of guys would pay you for boxing lessons. Guys with real money, that is," Ramiro added pointedly. "You'd have to give up coaching kids for free."

"Not gonna happen," Ryan replied casually, used to Ramiro's doubts about the wisdom of volunteering his time to coach boxing to inner-city youth. Ramiro and he had been partners on the vice squad of the Chicago Police Department for the past four years and he'd trust Ramiro with his life— had trusted him with his life on several occasions. They were as close as brothers, but they didn't have much in common besides their fanaticism for their work.

"Yeah, I figured you'd say that. Who'd you say the guy was who gave you this house?

Marshall Field or something?" Ramiro joked, referring to the nineteenth-century magnate who owned the famous Chicago department store.

"No, I think Marshall Field lived down the street a little bit. So did George Pullman and Philip Armour, from what I hear." He noticed Ramiro's blank expression despite the dimness in the entry hall. Ryan searched for a light switch. "Pullman was the creator of the Pullman sleeper train car and Philip Armour was the meatpacking millionaire. You have him to thank, at least partially, for all those hot dogs you eat by the gross. Armour bragged about using everything on the pig 'but the squeal.'"

Ryan recalled how he'd temporarily gone cold turkey as a teenager on any kind of packaged meats after reading about Philip Armour's revolutionary meatpacking techniques and the infamous Chicago stockyards.

Suddenly the opulent crystal chandelier blazed to life, bathing the grand foyer in soft, gleaming light. Ramiro glanced at him in surprise. Ryan hadn't yet located the light switch.

"Must be a short circuit. Who knows when this house was wired for electricity," Ryan mumbled as they headed for the stairs.

"So you inherited a house on millionaire's row, in other words," Ramiro said as he followed.

"I don't know if I'd call it that anymore, but the property it sits on is a hot ticket. The Prairie Avenue District is becoming revitalized." Ryan switched on a light in the second-floor hallway, chasing encroaching shadows into the distance.