Fortune in Blood Thanos Kalamidas Mark Bishop Esq. Fortune in Blood Thanos Kalamidas Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Fortune in Blood Fortune in Blood Thanos Kalamidas Mark Bishop Esq. Thanos Kalamidas An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Fortune in Blood m ark Bishop had just settled into his bat- tered leather armchair, a John Grisham paperback in one hand and a saucer of milk in the other intended for his cat, Lady Just, who stared up at him like he’d taken too long to serve her, when the knock came. Not the friendly kind. The kind with hesitation. The kind you heard when someone brought more than conversation to your doorstep. Mark opened the door to find Gregory Everett, a man with panic in his eyes and suit sleeves rolled to the elbows like he’d fought the wind and lost. “Mark,” he said, voice cracking, “I didn’t know who else to call.” Thanos Kalamidas Bishop stepped aside. “You called the right guy. Sit down. Tell me everything.” * * * * * * Twenty minutes later, with Lady Just curled around Gregory’s ankles as if choosing sides, Mark had the whole story. “I was in Sun Valley when it happened,” Gregory said. “Dad was found dead in his library. They said it was a stroke at first. Then the autopsy showed... bar- biturates.” He paused. Mark didn’t speak. “They think I poisoned him. That I flew back the night before and dumped pills into his bourbon.” Mark raised an eyebrow. “Did you?” “Jesus, no!” “Then we’ve got a start.” Gregory leaned forward. “It gets worse. There’s a new will. One I’ve never seen. It leaves me every- thing. Simon, my half-brother, claims Dad told him it was coming. But I swear to you, Mark, I didn’t even know it existed.” Fortune in Blood Bishop tapped the armrest. “You were close with your father?” “We didn’t always agree. But we were family.” “And Simon?” Gregory’s voice tightened. “He’s not blood. Dad married his mother when I was ten. Simon’s... cold. Always wanted in on the business. Always jealous. Dad cut him out years ago.” Mark stood. Walked to the window. Looked out across the quiet Boise neighborhood. The kind of place where trouble didn’t knock, it crept in wearing loafers. “I’ll take the case,” Mark said. “But I’m not doing it for you.” Gregory blinked. “Then why?” Mark turned. “Because something stinks. And I hate when money tries to drown the smell.” * * * * * * Mark stood in Charles Mathers’ personal library the next afternoon, a cavernous chamber with oil paintings of dead men and the scent of leather and Thanos Kalamidas secrets. The housekeeper, a rail-thin woman named Mrs. Delaney, watched him suspiciously. “This where he was found?” he asked. She nodded. “In that chair. Face down.” Bishop examined the decanter on the sideboard. Smelled the rim. “Anyone else drink this?” “No, sir. Only Mr. Mathers.” Mark stepped back. “Where’s the original will?” “In the wall safe. Mr. Simon took it out the day af- ter the funeral. Claimed it was legal.” “Mind if I take a look?” She hesitated. Then: “I suppose.” The safe opened with an old combination dial. In- side were folders, dusty ledgers—and a leather-bound envelope labeled WILL: C.M. — Oct 17. Mark opened it. Scanned the pages. His eyes nar- rowed. The last page didn’t match. Different weight. Slightly brighter. He smiled. Fortune in Blood “Amateurs.” * * * * * * Detective Cynthia Marris met Mark at a diner on Front Street. She was the kind who wore denim and didn’t care who noticed her badge. She’d chased drug lords in Boise when everyone else was chasing park- ing violations. “You think Everett’s innocent?” she asked over bit- ter coffee. “I know a desperate man when I see one. He didn’t kill his father.” “What makes you so sure?” “Because he’s terrified. Not of going to jail but of losing ...his father’s name.” She stirred her coffee. “You always see poetry in felons?” Mark smiled. “Only the ones who don’t belong in the poem.” She slid a file across. “Tox report. Enough pheno- barbital to knock out a bull. No fingerprints on the Thanos Kalamidas glass but Everett’s and the victim’s. No forced entry. The case builds itself.” Mark flipped pages. Then paused. “What’s this?” He pointed to a time-stamped call log from the night of the murder. “Simon called his father’s landline at 10:43 p.m.? Thought he was at a gala in Seattle.” “He was. Supposedly.” Mark looked up. “Well. Now we’ve got ourselves a motive. And a timeline that doesn’t fit.” * * * * * * Back at his home office, Mark spread both versions of the will across the table. Lady Just jumped up, sniffed the paper, and meowed disapprovingly. “Even the cat knows something’s off,” Mark mut- tered. He lit a UV penlight and passed it over the signa- tures. The body of the will glowed faintly. The signa- ture block? Bright and recent. He picked up the phone and dialed an old friend in forensic document analysis. Fortune in Blood “Tell me, Walt, how fast does ink age under scru- tiny?” “Depends on the ink,” Walt replied. “But if it’s glow- ing like a disco ball, it’s no more than six months old.” Mark leaned back, satisfied. Charles Mathers died in April. The will was dated the previous October. Somebody was lying. * * * * * * Mark stood in the courthouse lobby the next morn- ing, his tie slightly off-center and his briefcase filled with quiet thunder. Leo met him there, chewing on a cinnamon stick like it was a cigar. “You really think you’re gonna pull this off?” he asked. “I don’t pull anything off,” Mark said. “I just show the jury the trail. And sometimes, if we’re lucky, the villain steps on his own rake.” Thanos Kalamidas They walked into the courtroom as Simon Mathers gave his smuggest smile to the cameras. Mark adjusted his collar. “This’ll be fun,” he said. * * * * * * The next morning, Mark Bishop stood at the gates of the Mathers estate, dressed in a gray suit that had seen better days and gripping a steaming travel mug of diner coffee. Lady Just had been less than pleased at his early departure, her expression said it all as he tiptoed around her curled body. The gate buzzed, then creaked open with a me- chanical groan. Mark’s shoes crunched on the gravel driveway as the mansion loomed, three stories of stone, wood, and old money. Inside, everything screamed wealth. Crystal chandeliers. Leather chairs no one ever sat in. A house for image, not comfort. Simon Mathers met him in the drawing room with a martini already in hand. “You must be the infamous Mark Bishop,” he said Fortune in Blood smoothly. “Uncle Greg’s pet lawyer.” Mark offered a thin smile. “Just a friend doing a favor.” Simon motioned for him to sit, settling across from him with a practiced grace that came off more like rehearsed arrogance. “I suppose you want to talk about Everett. The trag- edy. My poor father.” “I want to talk about the will,” Mark said, pulling out a copy and setting it between them. “This version leaves the bulk of the estate to Everett. But Everett claims he never saw it. I’ve seen enough altered legal documents in my life to know when the ink isn’t dry.” Simon laughed lightly, though his jaw tightened. “Are you suggesting I forged my father’s will?” Mark leaned in. “I’m suggesting someone did. And whoever it was stood to lose a fortune.” Simon sipped his drink. “You’re fishing.” Mark’s voice stayed calm. “Maybe. But if I find the hook, you’ll be the one wriggling.” * * * * * * Thanos Kalamidas Back in the car, Mark dialed Leo Brant. “Yeah?” Leo answered. Sounds of hammering and a jazz saxophone bled through the phone. “I need you to track down a guy named Ray Man- cuso. Used to do custom forgery work in Portland. Word is, Simon hired him last fall.” “You think the will’s fake?” “I think the ink’s new. Paper doesn’t match the rest of Charles Mathers’ legal correspondence. And Si- mon’s got snake oil in his blood.” Leo whistled. “Alright. I’ll look into Mancuso. You gonna be okay alone?” “I’ve got Lady Just on my side,” Mark said. * * * * * * Two days later, Leo called back. “Got him. Ray Mancuso. Living above a pawn shop in Nampa under the name ‘Rick Marvin.’ Guess he’s laying low.” Mark wasted no time. He drove his beat-up Volvo Fortune in Blood to Nampa, navigating narrow streets until he found the squat beige building. The shop below sold rusted guitars, stolen tools, and dreams gone sideways. Up- stairs, Mark knocked twice. No answer. Then a voice: “Go away!” “Ray, I’m not here to arrest you,” Mark said. “But I need to talk. About a will. Charles Mathers. Simon paid you.” Silence. Then, the door creaked open. Ray Mancuso was pale, jittery, and reeked of ner- vous sweat. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “Jesus. You’re the guy on the news. The cat lawyer.” Mark blinked. “You watch CourtTV ?” “Every day, man.” They sat inside. Ray paced. “Okay, yeah, Simon came to me last November. Wanted a will modified. Said he had power of attor- ney. Paid me five grand up front. I told him I don’t do family stuff anymore. Too risky. But he waved the cash. I made him a forgery. Clean one. Used the same parchment, vintage ink. But the idiot must’ve Thanos Kalamidas swapped in the wrong page, one from my backup stash. That ink’s commercial. Modern. It glows un- der UV.” “Would you testify?” Mark asked. Ray froze. “No way.” “You already confessed. And if Simon goes down, you’re less useful as a patsy. Help me, and I’ll talk to the DA. Maybe you just get probation.” Ray considered. Then nodded. * * * * * * Back in Boise, things moved fast. Mark filed a motion to delay Everett’s trial by one week and subpoenaed Ray. He dug through Charles’ financial records, emails, even an old voicemail Charles left for his attorney—mentioning “concerns” about Simon’s behavior. Meanwhile, Everett languished in jail, growing thinner by the day. “They still think I did it,” he whispered during their next meeting. “I’m dead in the water.” Fortune in Blood “You just need to hold the line,” Mark said. “Simon built a house of cards. I’m just bringing the fan.” * * * * * * The courtroom was packed. Reporters whispered. Cameras clicked. Mark stood at the defense table, calm but coiled. Simon sat smugly behind the prosecutor’s table, dressed like a Brooks Brothers catalog, exuding con- fidence. The state’s case was clean: motive, means, and Ev- erett’s fingerprints. Then it was Mark’s turn. He called Ray Mancuso to the stand. “What is your profession, Mr. Mancuso?” Mark asked. “Document specialist. Forgery mostly.” “Did you ever create a forged will for Simon Ma- thers?” Ray hesitated, swallowed. “Yes.” Thanos Kalamidas Gasps. Mark continued. “Did you forge the most recent version of Charles Mathers’ will, the one naming Ev- erett as primary heir?” “I did. Simon paid me. Told me to make it look like it was updated six months prior.” “Do you recognize this page?” Mark held up a UV scan, the ink glowing faintly. “Yes. That’s the one with the modern ink. Not vin- tage. Not from Charles Mathers’ collection.” Mark turned to the jury. “The will is fake. And Ev- erett never saw it.” He rested his case. * * * * * * During closing arguments, Mark walked slowly before the jury. “This isn’t about money,” he said. “It’s about motive. If Everett stood to inherit everything, why forge the will? Why kill the man whose death would naturally bring that fortune? He had no reason to create chaos. Fortune in Blood “But Simon? He was cut out . He tried to rewrite history and benefit from his father’s death. When that didn’t work, he framed his brother using finger- prints on a common object, a paperweight Everett had gifted his father five years ago.” He paused. “I’ve known killers. Everett isn’t one. But Simon? He’s as guilty as the ink he used.” * * * * * * The jury deliberated just over an hour. “On the charge of first-degree murder,” the foreper- son said, “we find the defendant, Everett Mathers... not guilty.” Everett broke down. Outside the courthouse, Simon was arrested for fraud, conspiracy, and obstruction. As the cuffs clicked on, he looked directly at Mark. “You can’t prove I killed him.” Mark tilted his hat. “I don’t have to. I just have to make sure everyone knows you wanted him dead.” Thanos Kalamidas * * * * * * That night, Mark and Leo sat on Mark’s porch with two glasses of bourbon and a bowl of tuna for Lady Just. “Another one down,” Leo said. “You’re gonna run out of bad guys.” Mark chuckled. “Boise’s never short on trouble. Just short on truth.” Lady Just rubbed against his leg. Mark took a slow sip. “Funny thing about justice. Sometimes, it’s loud. Sometimes, it’s quiet. But when it hits? It hits like thunder.” And in the distance, thunder rolled. tHe end