Jon Michaelsen's Blog: Ramblings, Excerpts, WIPs, etc., page 5

Exclusive Excerpt: Police Brutality (Hazard and Somerset: A Union of Swords Book 2) by Gregory Ashe

Excerpt:



CHAPTER FIVE

DECEMBER 17

MONDAY

10:07 AM

HAZARD
BROKE DOWN ANOTHER BOX and carried it to the landing, where he had a
growing pile. Moving into the office for his private investigation agency had
actually been a fairly straightforward affair. Once Hazard had learned that
Somers had rented the place without asking him, and once Hazard had learned
that Somers would dump his dumb ass if he didn’t really get serious about
opening the agency, everything had been pretty clear.

Divorce, not dump, a little voice in his brain reminded.
Somers had said divorce, not dump. And then Somers had said the M word. The
fucking M word.

Right now, the suite of rooms above an empty storefront on
Market Street didn’t look like much, but it did look better. Some of Hazard’s
efforts were paying off. The large, front room, where Somers kept talking about
hiring an assistant and having him handle the administrative side of things,
currently sported several tubular chairs, a fern that slumped against the
cracked front window, and a painting that Somers had hung, crookedly, of the
Grand Rivere. Hazard’s office held his desk, a beautifully crafted piece that
Somers had stolen, literally, from his parents, and a pair of chairs. Over the
last few weeks, Hazard had been moving various professional books—both ones
that he had owned as a police officer and, now, ones that he had acquired as
part of his new career—from home to office. Hence, the cardboard box.

Click to purchase

Hazard crossed the room, adjusted the painting so that it
was level, and went to his private office. He powered up the laptop Somers had
picked out, dropped into the chair Somers had wanted him to have, and navigated
the advertising website where Somers had dropped an obscene amount of money and
told Hazard, when the fight about how much to spend had escalated, something to
the effect of: It’s already fucking spent,
so you can either use it or not.

Studying the website, Hazard tried to figure out how to use
the money that Somers had spent on him. The money Hazard hadn’t earned. The
money Hazard didn’t deserve. The money that might be a very poor investment,
judging by how well Hazard had done with his last client, who had been abducted
and tortured and almost killed. Hazard had seen Mitchell Martin in the Savers
just a few weeks before, from a distance, for an instant before Hazard ran
away—ran and hid. The young man was still on crutches, and he looked like he’d
been partially rubbed out with an eraser.

Flyers. People still looked at flyers, right? The internet
hadn’t completely obliterated flyers, had it? Hazard’s fingers hovered over the
keyboard. He sat there for maybe five minutes. Thinking.

Then he closed the browser tab. Maybe he’d better start with
a business card first. That would make sense, right? The business cards he had,
the ones he’d bought before he was even really sure he wanted to do this, just
said, Emery Hazard, Private Investigator.
So Hazard looked at linen cards. Then he looked at squishy cards that turned
into sponges when you put them in water. Then he went cheap, the bare bones.

And after maybe fifteen minutes, he closed the tab.

Maybe a website first. Maybe that was most important.

But the problem, the real problem, was that Hazard needed a
name for the business. And a logo. He was fairly sure that he needed a logo.
Something that would communicate, visually, what his business was going to
stand for.

So, he told himself, quit being such a pansy about the whole
thing. Quit dancing around it. Quit rearranging the three pieces of furniture,
quit watering the fern, quit phoning the landlord about the cracked glass, quit
playing with your dick and get down to business.

Ok. A name.

That was easy. Hazard opened a blank document, fingers flying
across the keyboard. He considered what he’d written, revised. A little
shorter. A little punchier. Perfect. Now he just needed a logo. He pulled up a
stock images site and browsed for twenty seconds before he found exactly what
he wanted. After buying the image, he pasted it onto the document. There. He
was grinning, aware of the flush in his face, the ridiculously exaggerated
sense of satisfaction at having accomplished even this much. But at least he
had something to show Somers tonight, a mock-up for the flyers and business
card and website and, fuck, LLC filing.

His printer hummed and chugged just as a knock came at the
office door.

Hazard reached for his gun, the Ruger Blackhawk chambered
for .45 Colt, six-cylinder, resting in the top, right-hand drawer.

“Hazard?”

For a moment, Hazard was still reacting, his hand wrapping
around the Blackhawk’s checkered rubber grip, his whole world narrowing down to
the need to run or shoot or both. Then, by inches, he clawed his way back to
control. It had been like this for him—he couldn’t think about it more than
that, couldn’t face it head-on yet—since July, when he had walked into the
ruined hallways of the Haverford to face Mikey Grames.

He was getting better, he told himself.

Pulse stuttering in his neck, he hid his hand, still holding
the gun, in the drawer. He worked moisture into his mouth. “Yeah?”

The doorknob turned; the door opened slowly. Walter
Hoffmeister poked his head into the room like he was doing some kind of shtick.

“For fuck’s sake,” Hazard said, releasing the Blackhawk and
shutting the drawer with his elbow. “Come in.”

The thing about Hoffmeister, Hazard decided as the man took
a seat, was that there was nothing to love. Hoffmeister was an asshole. The
whole universe was one big fire hydrant for Hoffmeister to piss on. He was tall,
thin, and sallow; he looked like a foam cup yellowing in the sun.

“Aren’t you supposed to have some sort of secretary?” he
asked, jerking his thumb at the empty front room.

“What do you want?”

“Kind of fucking stupid for you to be back here, hiding in a
closet, with that big room empty out there.”

Hazard leaned back; the chair creaked under his weight.

Hoffmeister crossed his legs, ankle bouncing on his knee. “Place
is a fucking dump.”

Hazard’s fingertips curled around the leather armrests.

“You see the front window is cracked?” Hoffmeister whistled.
“You’re going to pay a fucking fortune this winter. And next summer? Jesus,
you’ll have mosquitos in here the size of poodles.”

For a moment, Hazard visualized a Mack truck, a runaway,
coming down Market Street with its brake lines cut. And Hazard and Hoffmeister,
both of them, standing there on the curb. And Hazard’s hand on Hoffmeister’s
shoulder. Like they were buddies.

And hey, it was an infinite universe. Anything could happen.

“Let’s go outside and get some fresh air,” Hazard said.

“Nah, this stretch of Market smells like fish, you know?
Jesus Christ. Did you pick this place? What a fucking mess. How much are you
paying? Jesus Christ, if you tell me you’re paying more than, I don’t know, a
hundred and fifty bucks a month, you’re getting hosed.”

“A hundred and fifty bucks a month won’t rent you a storage
unit.”

“Oh man,” Hoffmeister said, laughing, stretching out now
that he’d pissed on everything, hands behind his head. But his ankle was still
bouncing on top of his knee. “Oh man, you are getting dicked up the ass. I knew
it. But I guess you kind of like that, right?”

“What do you want?”

Instead of answering, Hoffmeister leaned forward, brushing
something invisible off the desk. He ran his thumb all the way to the end of
the wood. Then, twisting back and forth, he slouched in his seat.

“You ever feel fucked?” Hoffmeister said, the words bursting
out. “You ever feel like the whole universe is just out to get you? I mean,
you’ve got to understand, right? You were a cop. And now you’re in this
shithole. You know what I mean?”

“I know you’re really fucking lousy at asking for help.”

For the first time since coming into the office—maybe for
the first time since Hazard had met him—Hoffmeister smiled. “Yeah, I guess I
am. How much do you charge?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. I’m not just saying that. I don’t know, I
really don’t. I’m fucked, ok? You heard that psycho bitch at the tree lighting
yesterday, right?”

“The one who said, ‘Officer Hoffmeister must die’? Yeah, I
heard her.”

“It’s bullshit. It’s fucking ridiculous. I shouldn’t have to
wear a target on my back because some rainbow-sprinkles snowflake is upset that
I did my job.”

“You know that woman?”

“Fuck no.”

“But you know what she’s upset about.”

“They’re all pissing their panties about the same thing,
Hazard. The same fucking thing: I did my job.”

“This is all wrapped up with the lawsuit, is that it?
Assault and battery—is that what it is?”

“Fucking bullshit.” Waving a hand, Hoffmeister added, “Union
rep says it’s just a dustup. You know, everybody’s hot under the collar about
police. My job, you know what it is? Keeping order. Keeping this town safe. And
now I do my job, and what happens? My ass gets slapped with fucking criminal
charges.”

“I heard that Ozark Volunteer guy, the one pressing charges,
I heard he got hurt pretty bad.”

“Jesus, I knocked him to the ground. That’s it. And he was
in the middle of felony assault, for whatever the fuck it’s worth.”

“It’s all just a dustup.”

“Sure, but shit, you know how it goes. This drags on and on,
and I’m at a desk like an asshole. And then, when this finally clears, that son
of a bitch is going to come after me for money.”

“Do you have money?”

“Fuck no, but that won’t stop him. Just hiring a lawyer is
going to cost me a fortune.”

“So hiring me probably isn’t a good idea.”

“Money’s no good to me if I’m dead, dumbfuck. That’s why I’m
here.” He leaned forward and drilled a finger into the desk. “Me. Alive. That’s
how I want to stay.”

“You think that woman at the tree lighting is really a
threat?”

Hoffmeister contracted, slouching in the seat again, chewing
a thumbnail. He stared past Hazard, fixated on something Hazard couldn’t see.

“What?” Hazard said. “What happened?”

“Fuck it. This was a stupid fucking idea.”

“No, sit down. Instead of giving me the opening lines from
your defense, tell me what’s going on.”

“Why? So you and Somers can have a laugh tonight? Fuck off.”

“You’re here because, for some reason, you don’t think you
can take this to the police. Is that right?”

Hoffmeister didn’t answer.

“Fifty dollars an hour. A thousand-dollar retainer. I
itemize expenses, and I send a report at the end of every week.”

“You can keep me alive?”

“Tell me what’s going on, and I’ll tell you what I think I
can do. Then you can decide if you want to hire me.”

Still chewing a nail, Hoffmeister seemed to consider this.
Then he shrugged. “I’m fucked, man. Universe has me fucked.”

“Let’s see if we can un-fuck your life.”

“You ever worked for someone? Jesus, I don’t want to be your
first. Probably end up in the funny pages, one big fucking punch line.”

Hazard thought of Mitchell Martin, crutching through the
Savers.

“You weren’t worried about that when you walked in here,”
was all he said.

Tearing his nail from between his teeth, Hoffmeister blew
out a breath. “Screw it,” he said, and then he started to talk.

Blurb:

For the first time in a long while, Emery Hazard’s life is good. His new business as a private detective is taking off. Things are good at home. He loves his boyfriend, John-Henry Somerset; he loves their daughter. He might even love the new friends they’ve found. There’s only one problem: Somers has been talking about marriage.

When a former colleague, Walter Hoffmeister, comes to Hazard and hires him to look into a series of anonymous death threats, Hazard eagerly jumps on the distraction. Hoffmeister might be a jerk, but he’s a paying jerk, and Hazard isn’t convinced the threats are serious.

Until, that is, Hoffmeister is almost gunned down on Hazard’s doorstep. As Hazard investigates more deeply, he learns that more than one person in Wahredua has a reason to wish Hoffmeister dead. His search takes him to the Ozark Volunteers, reincarnated as the Bright Lights movement, but it also leads him into a sanctuary of radical Christianity. Meanwhile, an antifa activist has arrived in town, calling for Hoffmeister’s death and threatening total war with the Bright Lights.

As Hazard continues to look for answers, he becomes a target too—and not just because he’s helping Hoffmeister. The Keeper of Bees is still at large, and the killer hasn’t lost interest in Emery Hazard. Not yet. Not, Hazard begins to suspect, until the Keeper has taken everything Hazard holds dear.

About the Author

Learn more about Gregory Ashe and forthcoming works
at www.gregoryashe.com.

For advanced access, exclusive content, limited-time
promotions, and insider information, please sign up for my mailing listhere or at http://bit.ly/ashemailinglist.

Exclusive Excerpt: Deserted to Death: A Jamie Brodie Mystery (Jamie Brodie Mysteries Book 19) by Meg Perry

Excerpt:

We were up early,
intending to beat the worst heat of the day. While Pete made breakfast, I went
through the garage to get the newspaper and found it in its usual spot at the
end of the driveway, encased in a plastic wrapper. I lowered the garage door behind
me and joined the others on the patio, upturning the wrapper to allow the
newspaper to slide onto the table beside Pete. As I did, a separate scrap of
paper fluttered to the tile under my feet.

It appeared to be a
lined sheet of notebook paper, folded into quarters. I bent down to pick it up,
and Kevin scrambled to his feet. “Don’t touch it.”

I froze, halfway down,
and craned my neck to look up at Kevin. “Why?”

“Because it shouldn’t be
there. Where’s the nearest box of tissues?”

Pete said, “Guest bathroom.”

click to purchase

Kevin disappeared into
the house. I straightened up but didn’t move. Pete, Kristen and I stared at the
sheet of paper like it might explode. I said, “He’s just being abnormally
cautious, right?”

Pete said, “Sure.” 

Kristen said, “It’s
probably just a note from your carrier.”

Kevin returned with the
box and pulled two tissues out. He draped them over his fingers and picked up
the paper, laid it on the table and carefully unfolded it.

The message was
handwritten in capital letters with a red Sharpie.

NO QUERS IN ALAMOGORDO

GO BACK TO SANFRANSISCO

OR YOUL’L BE SORRY

Kristen sucked in a
breath. I said, “Fuck.”

Pete moved beside Kevin,
where he could study the note from the proper angle. Kevin asked him,
“Thoughts?”

Pete’s tone was
analytical. Detached. “Misspellings indicate lack of education. Use of the word
queer indicates someone that’s too old or too out of the mainstream to realize
that it’s not considered an insult anymore.”

Kevin said, “Do you know
who’s friendly in the Alamogordo PD?”

Pete said, “Not yet. But
Steve would.”

“Call him.”

Pete went inside to call
Steve. Kristen said, “This is outrageous.”

I pinched the bridge of
my nose. “Dr. Cotton was right.”

Kevin said, “What?”

I told him and Kristen
what my doctor had said. Pete stepped back onto the patio as I said, “Then he
said, ‘be careful.’”

Kevin grunted. “Good
advice, apparently.”

Pete said, “Steve’s
calling a friend of his who’s a detective with APD. They’ll be here in about
twenty minutes.”

Kristen said, “I’d
better get dressed.” She went inside.

It was closer to a half
hour later when Steve parked at the foot of our driveway, accompanied by a man
in a separate car whom I’d never seen before. I opened the front door to them.
Steve said, “This is Tobias Rice. Tobias, this is my brother-in-law, Jamie
Brodie.”

Tobias Rice was about my
size, a shaved-bald African-American man wearing an APD polo shirt, jeans, and
a shoulder holster, and carrying what I figured was an evidence case. I shook
his hand. “Thanks for coming.”

“Glad to help.” His
voice was low but powerful. “Where is this note?”

“Right through here.” I
led him into the house and to the patio.

Tobias greeted the
others, then snapped on a pair of latex gloves and lifted the sheet of paper,
examining it from all angles. “Tell me how you found this?”

I told him. He asked,
“And this was when?”

“About 45 minutes ago.”

He thought out loud.
“Newspapers are delivered around 5:00-5:30. You find it an hour or so later…”

Pete said, “Easy for
someone to go unseen in the dark.”

“Yup.” Tobias nodded at
Ammo. “The dog didn’t hear anything?”

I said, “The house was
built to be soundproof.”

He unlatched his case
and extracted a fingerprinting kit. Several minutes later, he had a full set of
clear prints. “I’ll run these through IAFIS, see what pops. Anything else
unpleasant happens, you call me direct.” He recited his number, which both Pete
and I entered into our phones.

Pete saw Tobias out,
then returned. Steve said, “Tobias is the only black cop in Otero County. His
wife teaches math at the high school. They live down the street from me.”

I said, “I didn’t know
that APD had any detectives. Why didn’t he come when we discovered the body?”

“He doesn’t have any
training in homicide investigation. I think APD prefers to let the state police
handle those cases. But he has plenty of experience in evidence collection.”
Steve punched Pete lightly in the shoulder. “I’m late to work. See ya.”

Pete followed Steve
outside. I turned to Kevin who was standing at the edge of the patio, his arms
crossed, frowning at me. Behind him, Kristen was pacing. I said, “What the fuck?”

Kevin said, “This is
unacceptable.”

“I’m open to
suggestions. But there’s nothing we can do about it, is there? Other than
calling the cops?”

“No.”

Kristen was still
pacing. “Maybe Jeff and Colin shouldn’t visit.”

Jeff and his eldest, my
nephew Colin, were scheduled to visit next week, arriving the day after Kevin
and Kristen left. I said, “Then the terrorists win.”

“True. But what if the
attacks escalate?”

Pete came through the
back door as she spoke. “They won’t.”

Kevin said, “You don’t
know that.”

“No, but I can predict
it. Whoever these people are, they’ve done the worst they can think of.”

“Are you fucking kidding
me?” Kevin waved his hand in the general direction of town. “This county is
loaded with right-wing Second Amendment fans. You can’t say that someone isn’t
out there planning a drive-by.”

Pete scoffed.
“Seriously? This is a small town. Nobody’s going to try anything like that.”

“You think shit like
that doesn’t happen in a small town? You grew up in a small town. You know
how unpleasant the local yokels can be.”

I’d inched my way to
stand beside Kristen, and we watched as Kevin and Pete argued. It was a new
experience for me. Finally Pete said, “You’re overreacting.”

Kevin wasn’t done. “And
you’re sticking your head in the sand. Don’t be naïve. Did you think this rural
county would be gay-friendly? Would happily live and let live? Would give you a
pass because you’re Steve’s brother? What do you think?”

Pete was attempting
patience, but I could tell he was gritting his teeth. “I. Think. That. It.
Will. Be. Fine.”

Kevin stared at Pete for
a minute, and I realized something that I never had before. I’d thought them
equal in terms of intimidation factor, but I’d been wrong.

In a contest of wills,
Kevin would always win.

Kevin lowered his voice.
“You and Jamie can take care of yourselves. But I am not going to allow Jeff
and Colin to walk into the middle of a dangerous situation.”

“That should be Jeff’s
decision.”

“It will be, as soon as
I explain it to him.” Kevin strode into the house, closing the patio door
firmly behind him.

Pete said, to no one in
particular, “He’s overreacting.”

I said, “I’m not
convinced of that.”

He shifted his gaze to
me. “You, too?”

“Pete. We’ve been threatened.
Sure, it might not happen again, but I agree with Kev. I’m not willing to risk
Colin to that chance.”

Kristen looked back and
forth between us. I waited. Finally Pete blew out a deep breath. “I’m going for
a walk.”

Kristen said, “I need a
drink.”

I said, “Me, too.”

When we went into the
house, Kevin was in the family room, pacing just as Kristen had, while he
talked to Jeff. Kristen and I got bottles of Coke from the fridge and cracked
them open. I was taking a long drink when Kevin came into the kitchen, holding
out his phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

I took the phone and
said, “Hey.”

Jeff said, “Is Kev
overreacting?”

“Pete thinks so. I don’t
necessarily agree.”

He sighed. “Colin was
super excited about coming to Alamogordo again.”

“I know. It’s your decision.”

“I’ll talk to Val
tonight. We’ll let you know.”

“Okay.”

“And for God’s sake, be
careful.”

“I will. Don’t tell Dad
about any of this.”

“God, no.”

I said goodbye and
handed the phone back to Kevin. “He and Val will discuss and decide.”

Kevin said softly, “I’m
not overreacting.”

“I know.” I set my
bottle on the counter and rubbed my face. “This whole adventure was originally
my idea, you know.”

Kristen asked, “How so?”

“When we inherited the
money and I first thought of building a second home, same-sex marriage wasn’t
legal at the federal level yet. But it was already recognized here in New
Mexico.” I counted on my fingers. “My criteria were no earthquakes, no
wildfire, and that our marriage would be valid. And Steve was here, and all the
elements necessary for solar and geothermal living. It seemed perfect.”

Kristen said,
“Eventually, it’ll be all right. I think. But it’ll be easier if you rapidly
establish yourselves as Those Who Must Not Be Fucked With.”

Kevin snorted. “You’ll
enjoy that.”

I clinked my bottle
against his. “Hell, yeah.”

Blurb:

Jamie Brodie is feeling unsettled. His boss has asked him to take an unpaid furlough for the summer; his husband, Pete Ferguson, is obsessed with genealogy research and has papered the walls of their townhouse with family trees; and his father-in-law, Jack, is experiencing odd side effects from a new medication.
Pete wants to head straight for their second home in New Mexico at the beginning of Jamie’s furlough. Jamie has misgivings, but agrees. On their first morning in Alamogordo, Jamie discovers a dead teenager in the street across from their house. The findings in the victim’s autopsy report are deeply disturbing, and the victim’s identification leads Jamie to a jarring discovery.
Several days later, someone leaves a note inside Jamie and Pete’s morning newspaper. NO QUEERS IN ALAMOGORDO.
As the anonymous homophobic attacks continue, Jamie’s determination to stand his ground solidifies. But someone out there is equally determined to push Jamie and Pete out of town, and is willing to take extreme measures to achieve his goal.

More About Author, Meg Perry

Learn more about author Meg Perry and her Jamie Brodie Mystery series via her website:

Click banner for website

From Meg’s website:

“I’ve been writing the Jamie Brodie Mysteries since June 2012. Hard to believe! Jamie is (like me) an academic librarian. Not like me, he’s a gay man, a Rhodes Scholar, a rugby player, a son, brother, uncle…and boyfriend (eventually, husband). Jamie’s boyfriend (eventual husband) is psychology professor Pete Ferguson, and they share a townhouse in Santa Monica, CA.”

The Rational Faculty (Hazard and Somerset: A Union of Swords Book 1) by Gregory Ashe

Excerpt:



CHAPTER TEN

NOVEMBER 1

THURSDAY

8:37 AM

HAZARD HAD SLEPT POORLY, and around
two he left the bedroom. For a while, he walked the house, counting paces. This
many steps from the hall closet to the bathroom. This many steps from the
thermostat to the front door. This many steps from the utility room to the
window where he watched a fox cross the backyard. The house got smaller and
smaller, and after a while, he found himself on a couch, staring up into the
dark.

The thing was.

The thing was that it was so easy to imagine:
Somers with his sleeves rolled up, smiling, nodding, taking statements,
studying a crime scene, moving through a place of violent death with grace and
beauty. Somers seeing things that others didn’t see. Somers moving steadily
toward justice for an unjust death.

More. Somers, everything about Somers. Somers
interacting with people—even the simple, nonverbal things, the way Somers would
roll his shoulder or shake his head, and somehow it would be enough to get
Foley and Moraes laughing, like it had been the best joke in the universe—in
that peculiar way Somers had of being utterly perfect without seeming to
realize it.

Click to purchase

Hazard let himself play the whole thing out.
He ran it backward and forward like an old VHS tape. He let himself split off
into what ifs: Somers picking up coffee and donuts because it was the only way
to get Norman and Gross to do their job; Somers showing one of the new recruits
how to keep people away from a crime scene, politely but firmly. Wilder: Somers
chasing a suspect across rooftops; Somers in a shootout.

He played as many scenarios as he could until
it hurt so much that he couldn’t breathe. He had to close his eyes.

Then, upstairs, his alarm buzzed. It was a new
day.

He packed up all the broken pieces, swept that
spot inside himself clean, and went to turn off the alarm. Then he went back to
the kitchen, counting the steps automatically, and threw himself into the morning.

A little past eight-thirty, Hazard was sitting
at the table, coffee in one hand, his phone in the other. He was reading the
news when the garage door went up, and the familiar rumble of the Mustang’s
engine rolled into the garage.

Somers looked wrecked when he stepped inside.
Hair mussed worse than usual, red eyes, fatigue visible in the lines of his
face. He stopped just inside the kitchen. He smiled.

“Morning.”

“Look what the cat dragged in.”

“God, what a night.”

Hazard stood, set down phone and coffee, and
walked toward his boyfriend.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Fine.” Hazard bent, kissed Somers, and unbuckled
his waistband.

“Ree, I’m wiped. I’m not really—”

Hazard laughed as he undid Somers’s zipper an
inch.

“Not that I mind the interest,” Somers said,
his hand coming up to run over Hazard’s cheek. “It’s been a while since we . .
. you know.”

Still laughing, Hazard slid his hands around
Somers and unbuckled the waistband holster. He removed it and set it on the
kitchen counter.

“Oh,” Somers said.

Hazard pushed him into a seat at the table.
“I’m glad you didn’t mind the interest.”

“Ok, I just thought . . .”

“I know what you thought.”

“Well, when a guy starts taking off your pants
the minute you get through the door, you’re bound to think something’s up.”

“Something is up,” Hazard said, navigating to
the oven. “Breakfast.”

“Ree.”

“You’ve been up all night. You’ve been up over
twenty-four hours, in fact. You need to eat something. And you need to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Try doing things in order, John.” Hazard
pulled out a plate that had been warming in the oven. He poured juice and
coffee.

“I can do that,” Somers said.

“Don’t you dare.” Hazard carried everything
over to the table.

“I can do that too.”

“Uh uh.”

Somers stared at the plate.

“Goat cheese omelet with bacon and shallots,”
Hazard said. “Grits. And asparagus.”

“I thought it was a little green spear.”

Hazard smiled and went back to his seat.

They sat there together in silence. Somers
picked at the food, taking a few bites, but mostly just staring at the plate.
He moved a piece of asparagus all the way to one side. Then he moved it back.
The tines of his fork rang out against the ceramic. Then the asparagus had to
go all the way over again. Hazard watched all of it out of the corner of his
eye. The world-traveling asparagus.

“Ree, maybe we should talk about this stuff.”

“Sure. I want to hear about the case.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.”

Hazard set his phone down. He looked at
Somers. And he said, “Please, John. I’m not asking you to give me protected
information. I just . . . I just want to hear about it. Whatever you can tell
me.”

Somers actually dropped his fork. “You think I
wouldn’t tell you?”

“I’m a civilian. Information about ongoing
investigations—”

“Jesus Christ, Ree. You’re my boyfriend.
You’re the smartest person I know. You’re the best detective I know. If you’re
willing to listen, Jesus, you’re going to have to tell me to shut up.”

“I’ve gotten pretty good at that.”

With a real smile on his face, Somers began to
talk. And eat. Whatever his objection to the meal, it was forgotten as he
launched into an account of the case. A few times, Hazard tried to stop him,
but Somers waved the warnings aside and kept talking.

And inside, Hazard felt something coming to
life. Like he’d been walking in the dark, and now lights were coming on. He
listened to Somers’s description of the crime scene. He listened to the
paraphrased interviews. And then, to his own surprise, Hazard found himself
asking questions. Did he say this? Did she say that?

It was almost like the old days.

“So,” Somers said as he scraped a fork across
his empty plate. “What do you think?”

Hazard grabbed his coffee and took a drink. He
shrugged. “Nothing on the security cameras?”

“Not yet. No sign of this guy. He walks out of
the apartment and, as far as we can tell, disappears. Cravens is going to have
people keep looking at the footage, but . . .” Somers waved a hand
dismissively. “So, who else was in on it?”

Hazard shrugged again.

“Come on,” Somers said. “Right now, I like
that girl Cynthia for it. She’s got a weird thing for professors; I wouldn’t be
surprised if Fabbri had a thing with her, cut it off, and she went crazy.”

“That’s a good theory.” Hazard raised his
coffee again.

“Oh no,” Somers said, catching the mug and
pulling it back down. “Now you.”

“Come on, I don’t do that kind of stuff
anymore.”

“Three months and you’re out of practice?”

“I—”

“Bullshit.”

“John, I—”

“Bullshit.” Somers had a crazy grin. “Tell
me.”

“I think it’s strange that the adjunct—what
was his name?”

“Carl. Don’t pretend like you don’t remember.”

“I think it’s strange his story doesn’t match
up in so many ways. And he’s right: cui bono? Who benefits?”

“So you think it’s Carl.

“I don’t know.”

“No, that’s good. That’s really good to know.”

“John, I’m just saying—” Hazard stopped. “This
is not a representation of my ability to make a final, conclusive deduction—”

“Like the time you were convinced you knew how
The Sixth Sense was going to end.”

“Shyamalan cheated,” Hazard growled, getting
to his feet.

“And I think,” Somers said, sprawling back in
his seat, studying Hazard from under hooded eyes, “that it was Cynthia Outzen
who killed Fabbri because she was a jilted lover.” Then Somers stood. He took
the mug of coffee, gently easing Hazard’s fingers away from the ceramic, and
set it on the table. Then he brought Hazard’s hands down to his waistband.
“Now. I believe I was having some ideas about you when I got home.”

Hazard had one of those tiny Emery Hazard
smiles. He bent and kissed Somers once, and then he pulled his hands away. “You
need to go to bed.”

“Sure. Come with.”

Laughing, Hazard extricated himself, collected
his coffee, and started stacking Somers’s plate and utensils. “I’ve got stuff
to do, John. And you’re exhausted.”

“Not too exhausted to fool around with my hot,
hulking boyfriend.” Somers was behind Hazard now, sliding his arms around
Hazard’s waist, kissing Hazard’s shoulder and arms through the thin cotton of
Hazard’s t-shirt. “Come on. It’s been a while.”

“It hasn’t been that long.”

“It feels like forever.”

Hazard was very careful. He had to be so
careful these days, careful about almost everything. He set down the stack of
dishes. He took Somers by the wrists—gently, carefully—and he turned around,
stepping out of the embrace.

It took him a moment too long to know what to
say. Confusion, then pain sparked in Somers’s face and disappeared.

“I’ve got to—” Hazard began.

“Yeah,” Somers said.

“I thought I might take a swing at the utility
sink today.”

“I’m going to do it, Ree. I promise. Tonight.
Or tomorrow if the case stays hot.”

Hazard brought Somers’s hands up. He kissed
his palms.

“Ree, you don’t ever have to—I mean, you can
just tell me.”

Hazard bent and kissed him. Then he released
Somers’s hands, turned him toward the stairs, and gave him a push.

“Go get some sleep.”

But Somers slowed and turned back. He didn’t
say anything. He just watched Hazard.

Hazard made himself stand there as long as he
could; then he turned and picked up the dishes and made his way to the sink.

“Don’t forget,” Somers said, his voice so
normal that Hazard wanted to punch out the window over the sink, “we’ve got
dinner with the sheriff tonight.”

“I’ll call and cancel. You’re going to be busy
working—”

“No, it’ll be fine. I’ve got to eat dinner
sometime, and we’ve been trying to set it up for ages.”

“He’ll understand, John. We’ll do it another
time.”

“No,” Somers said sharply. Then, back in that
painfully normal voice, “No. Dinner, tonight, with the sheriff.”

“Ok.” Hazard ran the hot water and said, “Get
to bed.”

Somers left; it was like he vanished, turned
to smoke. No creaking floorboards. No protesting stairs. That part of Hazard’s
brain, where the lights had come on, was doing calculations. Somers was an easy
sleeper; he’d be totally out in the next five minutes, and he could sleep in a
trainyard.

No, Hazard told himself.

He did the dishes.

That part of his brain, though, kept working.
It was a fifteen-minute drive from their house to Wroxall. It was fifteen
minutes to anywhere in Wahredua.

No.

He wiped down the counters.

Somers was already asleep; Hazard’s internal
timer assured him of that. Fifteen minutes to get to Wroxall. Fifteen minutes
to get back. How long would Somers sleep? Hazard checked the clock on the
stove. Almost nine-thirty. Four hours? Five? Hazard guessed four, and he threw
himself a safety net: three hours. He’d have to be back in three hours. Minus
half an hour for travel. That left two and a half hours to look at the crime
scene himself, to do a preliminary canvass, and to get back.

No.

Hazard got the mop and bucket. He got the jug
of Fabuloso. He started the hot water again, measured out the cleaner, and
poured it in. As the suds built, he told himself he wasn’t a detective anymore.
He wasn’t even a private detective, although Somers had been after him for
months now, ever since their last trip to St. Louis, to open his own agency. He
was just a guy. And he had no reason to get involved.

He came back to reality just as the bubbles
crested and spilled down the side of the bucket. Swearing, Hazard turned off
the hot water. The smell of Fabuloso filled the kitchen; it stuck to his hands
when he wiped them on his shirt.

He wasn’t going anywhere. He was going to mop
the floor—like the good little houseboy you are, a nasty voice said inside him.
He was going to mop the floor. He was going to clean up the front flower beds.
He was going to overseed a part of the lawn in back that was patchy. He was
feeling better, so much better, as he listed out his routine. Yes. He was going
to clean the baseboards. They hadn’t done that since moving in, and Somers
liked a clean house. Hazard felt great.

None of which explained why he found himself
creeping upstairs, careful to avoid the warped boards and the creaky risers. At
the top, he paused, listened. Their bedroom door was open, and he could hear
Somers’s even breathing. Hazard turned toward the front of the house. He went
into the office. He shut the door, and he didn’t dare turn on the light. He
felt like he was burgling his own house.

They shared a desk, and as Hazard opened the
bottom drawer, he still wasn’t sure why he had chosen this as his hiding place.
It seemed like a terribly stupid place, where Somers was likely to look if he
needed the stapler or a rubber band. Hazard shifted office supplies until he
found the small bundle. He pulled it out of the drawer. He unfolded the
protective paper.

Five hundred business cards lay like a bad
deal in poker.

Emery
Hazard. Private Investigator.

No phone number. No email. He didn’t have an
office or a name for the agency. Ordering the cards had been stupid. Sheer
stupidity, prompted by one stupid conversation in St. Louis after that asshole
North McKinney had crawled under Hazard’s skin again.

Hazard skimmed twenty off the top and stuck
them in his pocket. Then he rewrapped the cards, returned them to the drawer,
and covered them with Post-Its, a tape dispenser, a box of Bic pens.

He was out of the house, driving toward
Wroxall, before he realized he had forgotten to mop the floors.

About the Author

Learn more about Gregory Ashe and forthcoming works at www.gregoryashe.com.

Author, Gregory Ashe

For advanced access, exclusive content, limited-time promotions,
and insider information, please sign up for my mailing list here or
at http://bit.ly/ashemailinglist.

Exclusive Excerpt: The Deadwood Murders (a Kendall Parker Mystery Book 2) by Jon Michaelsen

Excerpt

Parker sized up the Feds as he stepped into Lieutenant
Russell’s office. Both men stood over six-foot, one larger than the other in
bulk; no blubber on these fellows. Each wore fitted charcoal pinstripe suits
and starched white button-down shirts offset by conservative blue ties. The
thinner of the two sported a shaved head, more to hide his balding crown than
current fashion trend, Parker surmised. A thin gold band rode the man’s left
hand. The bulkier one stood closest to Parker. He had blonde hair, styled in a
tight crewcut, and steel-blue eyes that softened and disarmed his otherwise
imposing posture. Parker noted the man’s ring-less hand. His lover died
only eight months ago and the fact he’d noted the ring finger of the most
attractive of the two mules took him by surprise. 

 “Sir.” Parker nodded
to his new commander. He noted how diminutive his hand was in comparison to his
boss’s, and Parker wasn’t a small man by any measure. “Good to finally
meet you sir.”

If the agents were surprised by the revelation, they showed
nothing in their stoic stares. Parker remained standing, awaiting
introductions.

Lieutenant Russell referred to the men. “Supervisory Special Agent Delvecchio and Special Agent Hales, FBI CID, Atlanta Field Office, Century Center.” Russell moved behind his desk and prepared to sit.  

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“Gentleman.” Parker assessed the dark-suited
strangers from the FBI’s Criminal Investigative Division out of Atlanta, shook
each of their hands, smiling respectfully. Delvecchio’s palm was rough and
waxy; Hales’ hand felt smooth, but firm. “I haven’t passed any bad checks
that I know of, so what’s this about? You here on a recruiting expedition?”

Russell curled his lip and glared at his charge. “Knock
it off, Parker. This ain’t no social call.”

Neither man reacted to Parker’s rough humor. Russell pointed to a chair against the wall with a grunt. “Pull up a seat, Parker and hear these men out.”

Making a show of his discontent, Parker dragged the black leather armchair up to the desk adjacent to the lieutenant and the Feds. He glanced at the agents expectantly. “Nice weather we’re having,” Parker said. He offered a wink and a grin as he sat. 

Lieutenant Russell scowled, and motioned for the men to sit
before taking his own seat. If Parker’s effort was to make a bad first
impression with the new lieutenant, he was succeeding.

Russell motioned for the men to begin. Baldy opened the
blue folder in his hands and began paraphrasing the facts within. “Three days
ago, a male, age thirty-four, 6’2″, a Caucasian married father of two
from Memphis, Tennessee was discovered beneath the bed in a downtown
Atlanta hotel. Victim was gagged and bound, strangled with a nylon cord
believed to be cut from the drapes. Autopsy revealed ligature marks on the
wrists and ankles. Incised wounds inflicted to the victim’s torso, face and
legs were pre-and post-mortem.” He flipped a couple of pages forward without
modifying his dull expression. “Hotel Regency located at 254 Cortland Street.”
He returned to the original page in the folder. “The man was in town attending
a convention booked in the hotel. The body was discovered by a security guard
after being alerted that the guest hadn’t shown for scheduled meetings. APD
Evidence Response Team dispatched to the scene found no evidence of forced
entry, or any sign of struggle.” He glanced up at Parker with an intense
expression in his eyes. “No witnesses to the assault. Nearby guests in the
hotel reported hearing nothing unusual. No perpetrator has been
identified.”

Special Agent Delvecchio cleared his throat and continued
forth in a monotone. “Two weeks ago, the body of a male, age thirty, 6’1”,
Caucasian, one hundred and seventy pounds, was discovered behind a facility’s
bathroom in a park off Interstate 20. Again, no signs of a struggle. Autopsy
identified death caused by ligature strangulation. Victim suffered repeated
trauma to the head,” —he flipped a page— “possibly injuries from a ‘slap-jack,’
or some similar type object. Lacerations to the left side of the head above the
ear resulted in significant external bleeding. ME ruled the death a homicide.
Pool of blood located near the body indicates the victim died in the same
location.”

Having no idea where this was leading, Parker had little
choice but to afford his full attention to the man droning on about the deaths.
Parker readjusted himself in his chair, cleared his throat and continued to
listen to the agent.

Delvecchio’s cheeks glowed red as he read from the page. The
bluish jugular vein on the side of his throat bulged grotesquely. “Late last
month, a Georgia Department of Transportation mowing crew discovered the
mutilated body of a Caucasian male in the woods near Interstate 75 outside of Tifton,
Georgia. Coroner’s report recorded the victim’s age at thirty-five, height 6’1”,
weight one-hundred-eighty-five pounds. Cause of death was asphyxia by ligature
compression. Several shallow incised wounds noted to the face and upper torso.
Penis and scrotum excised antemortem. All wounds indicated torture prior to
death. Instrument used to inflict incised wounds and removal of the privates is
unconfirmed at this time.”

“Emasculated before death?” Parker’s thighs flinched. “I’m
sorry, I don’t mean to be insensitive, but why does any of this require my
presence here today?”

Special Agent Hales spoke for the first time. “Four
more victims died of similar manner, one each in Macon and Valdosta, Georgia
and the other two in Florida, Jacksonville and Orlando. There may be more we
have not connected to the same perpetrator yet. These killings all happened
within the last six months. Victims were male, Caucasian, 6’0” to 6’4”, between
twenty-five and thirty-five. All tortured, sodomized, and mutilated to some
extent. Most were known or suspected homosexuals, or at the very least,
witnessed frequenting businesses that cater to the community.”

“What the hell?” Parker shot up from his seat, seething,
his ears burning. “Is this some sort of sick attempt to get me to
resign?” He reached the door in two strides. “You’ll hear from my rep
before you even make it back to your field office.”

“Sit down Sergeant Parker,” the lieutenant boomed,
smacking his large palm on the desk. The room fell eerily silent. “You’re
not leaving, and you’re definitely not contacting the IBPO. The reason you’re
here will become quite clear.”

Blurb: The Deadwood Murders

A mutilated conventioneer.

Gay men brutally tortured before death.

A trail of bodies carrying the same grim signature.

Homicide
Detective Kendall Parker isn’t sure he wants to return to the police force. His
last case ended with the arrest of an innocent man for murder, and his long-time
homicide partner was killed in the process. Still on leave from APD, Sgt. Parker
has gotten sober, smoke-free, and is rebuilding a life alone.

But,
the arrival of a brazen killer cuts short Parker’s sabbatical. His new homicide
commander summons him to police headquarters with a direct plea from the mayor:
go undercover for the FBI to flush out the predator. With the gay community
under siege, Parker must prowl Atlanta’s gay bars and late-night dance clubs as
bait in hopes of luring the killer.

Award-winning Investigative reporter Calvin Slade is also on the trail. Aided by a hotshot young reporter, Slade soon uncovers a horrifying clue law enforcement has kept from the public. But, will chasing the hottest story of his career put him directly in the path a savage beast?

Haven’t been introduced to Atlanta Homicide Detective Sgt. Kendall Parker yet? Check out the blurb below:

Blurb: Pretty Boy Dead

** Finalist Lambda Literary Awards for Best Gay Mystery **

When the mangled body of a young gay man is discovered in a popular Atlanta park, advocacy groups converge on City Hall demanding justice. Media are quick to pin the brutal homicide on a drug-addicted, homeless teen. Atlanta Detective Sgt. Kendall Parker isn’t so convinced, even after the suspect assaults his homicide partner with a deadly weapon. But when the investigation takes a disastrous turn, a suspect in custody ends up dead.

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It becomes a race against time for the veteran detective to solve the apparent gay-bashing, but when a tenacious reporter threatens to expose a police cover-up, Parker is forced to make an impossible choice: stand firm for justice, or betray the brotherhood in blue. With the odds against him, Parker will need to rely on keen instinct and streetwise experience to catch a brutal killer.

Yet success often comes at a price, and for Parker, it may mean revealing his closely guarded secret.

Now is your chance to purchase Pretty Boy Dead (a Kendall Parker Mystery Book 1) at a discounted rate.

More about Jon Michaelsen



Amazon Author Page

Jon Michaelsen is a writer of Gay Mystery, Thriller & Suspense fiction and Speculative fiction within the sub-genres of Mystery, Suspense & Thriller. He was born in southwest Georgia, his family moved to Atlanta, where he remains today. Retired after twenty-five years in corporate travel management, he now spends his time writing. His first novel in the Kendall Parker Mystery series, Pretty Boy Dead, was a Lambda Literary Award Finalist for Gay Mystery and his novella, Prince of the Sea, earned the 2017 Best Gay Men’s Fiction Award for Gay Fiction by a Goodreads Reading Group. He has published several short stories, many of which appear in anthologies. He lives with his husband of 33 years, and two monstrous terriers.

Contact him at Michaelsen.jon@gmail.com

Other ways to find Jon Michaelsen:

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Dead On Your Feet (Stan Kraychik Mystery Book 3) Grant Michaels

Excerpt:

NEXT MORNING THE TELEPHONE BLASTED ME out of a fitful sleep,
like a panic alert for a nuclear attack. Its tormented electronic bleating
launched a dull unfocused pressure at the back of my skull. With a queasy
stomach, all I could recall was the vast quantity and variety of alcohol and
food that I had consumed just a few hours earlier. Groggily I hoped the phone
call would be Rafik, eager to apologize for his role in the horrible
misunderstanding we’d had last night. At numerous points during the night I’d awaken
startled and anxious and tense. I’d get as far as punching his number, but then
logic would take over and I’d hang up before the call went through. After all,
what if he wasn’t home? That would be even worse than the torture of regret. So
throughout the long, lonely night I tried to assure myself that we’d soon be
frantically apologizing and forgiving each other. And everything would be back
to normal.

The phone was still ringing. I grabbed clumsily and dropped
it, accidentally bumping Sugar Baby, who at some point during the night had
deigned to settle on the empty pillow next to mine, Rafik’s place. From her cat
sleep she sprang from the pillow, leaped over my head, landed on the Turkish
carpet that covers my bedroom floor, and scampered away. I put the phone to my
ear, but before I’d even said hello, I heard Rafik speaking excitedly with his
heavy French accent.

 “Stani,” he said, “there is great trouble. Max Harkey is dead!”

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My first reaction was that Rafik was playing a prank to
distract me and win back my affection. If so, it was one unworthy of his
fertile imagination. Then again, perhaps it was that cultural difference
between us that made his joke sound flat to me, some Francophone subtlety I
still couldn’t appreciate. But I wondered— and Max Harkey be damned— What about
us? Aren’t you sorry about last night? Have you forgotten how you hurt me?

“Stani?” he said uncertainly, as though the phone might be
out of order and the connection never properly made.

 “I’m here,” I replied
coolly, thinking to myself, And so far you haven’t said the words I want to
hear.

“Stani, I find him like this. Is horrible!”

“Where are you?”

“At his apartment.”

I set my blurry vision toward the alarm clock. There seemed
to be only one hand, pointing downward. It was 6:30.

“What are you doing there at this hour?”

The line was quiet. After a few seconds of waiting for his
answer, I felt the throbbing at the back of my head move forward to my temple.
Then an unexpected wave of nausea washed over me, and I felt a cold sweat break
out on my forehead. I envisioned every goddam glass of alcohol I’d had last
night. They all swirled in a vortex in my mind’s eye, from the first martinis
at my apartment, to the additional cocktails at Max Harkey’s, to the numerous glasses
of wine with dinner, to the tumbler of liqueur afterwards. It all came back
with nauseating clarity. Oh, to be unconscious! All I wanted was to put the
phone down and go back to sleep. Maybe then all of last night’s mistakes—
especially my boozy belligerence— would fade away back into a dream. Then I
could wake up again later to a bright new world where everything was blue skies
and songbirds. The idea was so appealing that I almost nodded off.

“Stani?” said Rafik.

I returned to the present, to the unpleasantness of why
Rafik was at Max Harkey’s place at six-thirty in the morning. Somewhere I
recalled Max Harkey saying that Rafik needed to be humbled. Had the challenge
been met last night, only to culminate in the man’s death? I confronted Rafik
directly.

“Did you spend the night with him?” I said.

“How you can ask such a thing?” he yelled. A tremor of pain
rammed itself through my swollen brain. “Stani, his blood is everyplace.”

The new tension in Rafik’s voice told me that perhaps he
wasn’t kidding. I sat up in the bed. Sugar Baby must have sensed my alarm,
because she jumped back up onto the bed and nestled against my thigh. I rested
my forehead against my free hand.

“Tell me what happened, Rafik.”

“I tell you, he is dead.”

If he was telling the truth, there was only one thing to do.
I’d been in those exact circumstances myself, facing a corpse. Back then I
thought I’d done the right thing by being responsible and calling the police,
but then I always learn the hard way.

“Rafik, if Max Harkey is really dead—”

“He is, Stani. Believe me.”

“Then you must do exactly what I say.”

“But Stani—”

“No buts, Rafik. Just listen and do. First, you wipe your
fingerprints off everything you’ve touched in that place. Everything.
Understand? And then you get out of there. Now! I’ll be waiting for you here.”

“I cannot do that, Stani.”

“Why not?”

“The police are here,” said the master of selective
omission. “They do not know I am calling you. They ask me many questions. Will
you come? Please?”

 I paused, not quite
sure what to do or say. My arrival at Max Harkey’s place might only complicate
things, especially with the police there. The line was quiet while I
deliberated. When Rafik spoke again, I heard a new timbre in his voice, wily
modulation, cryptic but musical, a kind of aural snare distilled from a legacy
of Middle Eastern genes and the myriad ruses employed by clever harem boys to
spare themselves painful punishment or even castration.

“Stani,” he said, “I am sorry for last night. I did not mean
those things.” His words flowed like dark notes from a wood flute, and their
exotic coloration left me defenseless. “I love you. I will stop my work. I will
leave the ballet.”

After our falling-out I’d hoped for a more dramatic
reconciliation, a physical event where Rafik would arrive at my threshold
repentant and contrite. Even at three o’clock in the morning he would beg
forgiveness and let me show him just how much and how willingly I could
forgive. But instead, Rafik was now inducing me to rescue him from a bad
situation with the police, at the home of the very man with whom he might have
had the ultimate confrontation, and who was now dead.

“Okay, Rafik. Don’t quit your job yet. I’m on my way.”

Blurb:

A Stan Kraychik Mystery, Book 3 — Out-of-the-closet, loud and proud Stan Kraychik shines again in this witty, fast-moving romp. Boston’s sassiest hairdresser is on the case when the founder of a ballet company is discovered murdered; Homicide Detective Lieutenant, and sometime nemesis, Vito Branco gives the green light. Stan soon finds that the abundance of suspects, including both his lover and his rival. Adept at mining clues from gossip, Stan investigates: a wealthy benefactor; a ballet mistress with a Russian accent; a conductor; and a homophobic homosexual ballet star. A cute guy is killed; an unappealing one makes advances; and Stan and Rafik have relationship tussles. Then, Stan and the killer meet up in a fabulous balconied penthouse one last time … and discovers life is more complex—and deadly—than art.

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Exclusive Excerpt: Murder on Camac by Joseph R. G. De Marco – 10 Year Anniversary Giveaway!

Excerpt:

There
was such an air of calm and order that I wondered if Ty had been mistaken.
Nothing seemed unusual. Until I reached Camac Street south of Cypress.

The
red, blue, and white flashing lights of a police car blocking the other end of
the street signaled trouble. Police officers and a small knot of people
gathered where I stood. Camac is a small street – in Philadelphia we call it a
street, in some places it might be called a back alley. It was never well
traveled.

Except
for tonight. It teemed with people. CSIs literally crawled around searching for
evidence. Cops, detectives, people I assumed were witnesses, and onlookers made
the normally quiet street a mini Times Square.

Ronnie
Larkin, a familiar face, stood guard near the yellow tape roping off the crime
scene. She and I went back a long time, since before my abortive attempt to
join the force. She’d become a cop and had encouraged me to join. Things didn’t
work out but we’d remained friends and drinking buddies. I could always count
on her when I needed information not easily squeezed out of other “friends” in
the ranks.

“Hey,
Ronnie.” I kept my voice appropriately low.


“Fontana.” She ducked her head in salute.Behind her, by the light of street lamps, I saw a man, sprawled on the cobblestones. Dark blood pooled around the corpse and had filled the gaps between the paving stones. The guy was face down and a CSI probed around, picking up trace evidence, taking photos, before turning the body over.

Click to purchase

“What
happened, Ronnie? Any witnesses?”

“Mugging.
Overheard a witness say a guy with a gun runs up to the victim, shouts
something, takes the vic’s bag. Then he opens up, puts three rounds into him,
and runs away.”

“Just
like that?”

“Flash
of an eye. The vic was walking with a friend. Friend says they were going to
dinner at the Venture. Then this guy runs up and pops the man. Are you, like,
an ambulance chaser now, Fontana? Need cases that bad?”

“I’ll
ignore that, Ronnie.” I smiled. “He shot without the other guy struggling? He
took the guy’s bag? That was it? Didn’t even try to shoot the friend?”

 “I’m just on crowd control. They tell me
nothing. For all I know, he coulda tried to shoot them both. Maybe somethin’
scared him off before he could. I didn’t hear everything. I don’t even know who
the vic is… was.” She winced. She was still the Ronnie I knew from way back,
tough but compassionate.

“If
you hear anything, let me know, will you Ronnie?”


“Sure
thing, Marco. You got a personal stake in this?”


“When
it happens on your doorstep, it’s kinda personal.” I gave her a nod, looked
over the scene once more, and left.
I wouldn’t get more information right then and it wasn’t my case
in any event, but I liked to know things. Force of habit with me. Can’t help
asking questions, poking into everybody’s business, picking up odd facts. You
never know when some detail will come in handy. That’s why so many men I’ve
dated tell me they feel like they’re being interviewed, or, grilled is more
like the word they use.

My
stomach grumbled reminding me I’d only eaten half a turkey sandwich for lunch.
I pulled out my cell phone, forwarded office calls to the cell, and walked
home.

The
gayborhood gets larger every day, adding more businesses, condos, and people. A
new café, HavaCup, with the cutest staff and the best muffins, was quickly
becoming my place of choice for out of office experiences. Maybe their muffins
only tasted good because the staff was so hot. All I knew was that I found
myself there almost every day. Just across the street, a small and very chic bar,
named Secrets, had taken the place of an old music store. The walls were
enclosed sheet fountains which created the illusion of privacy. Secrets had
dozens of spaces made for that private tête á tête with a special guy.
Observers could see only shadows and outlines. Very sexy.

You never knew who or what you’d find in the gayborhood.

Click to purchase

I’d
managed to get a condo close to it all, in Lyric House which made living in the
city very easy. The building was like a small town with about eight hundred
condos and who knows how many people? The residents were amazingly varied, from
the outgoing and pushy to the solitary and rude. I guess I fell somewhere in
between. Except for the rude part.

The
automatic doors whisked me in and I saw people chatting in the marble-clad
lobby, Nosy Rosie at the center of the group as usual. She was a gossip magnet
and I’d even thought about hiring her to ferret out information, except she
couldn’t keep anything to herself. I passed her without being seen. Rosie was
too busy finding out details of Mrs. Cooperman’s surgery to notice me.

Carlos
was on the desk. Dark and sultry, Carlos loved kidding the denizens of Lyric
House. Teasing with his natural good looks, his intense eyes, and his broad
smile. Even on my glummest days, he lifted my spirits. Of course, he could lift
my spirits in more ways than one if he wanted to.

“Marco!
You on a case, man?”

“Always
on a case, Carlos.” I laughed wondering if he knew I’d love to be on his case.
Even though he was a flirt, he gave all the signs of being straight. Oh well,
someone had to do it.

The
elevator zipped me to the forty-first floor. It wasn’t the highest floor but
damned near and the view from my balcony took my breath away every time. I
turned on a few lights, put a Lean Starts dinner into the microwave, and
flipped on the radio. All news, all the time. Not a bad thing while nuking
food. I’d gotten a lot of leads over the years, listening to them drone on.

Click to purchase

“At
the top of the hour, we have word the hostage situation at Hopewell Mall in New
Jersey has been resolved peacefully. KYW will bring you the police briefing
live. Philadelphia returns to normal after the fifteen day transit strike and
Andrea Fitchell will have that story. Talks to discuss parochial school
closings are set between Mayor Stroupe and Cardinal Galante. After months of
speculation, a list of inner city Catholic school closings has been announced. The
Mayor hopes to reduce that list. Cardinal Galante, a leading voice in the Roman
Catholic Church, still recovering from double knee replacement surgery, offered
no comment on Archdiocesan plans. In other news, authorities have uncovered an
identity theft ring on Rittenhouse Square. Arrests have been made. But the
hour’s top story is the murder of local author Helmut Brandt. Witnesses say an
armed man confronted Brandt as he and a companion strolled down a quiet center
city street. The assailant then fled on foot. Brandt, author of Vatican
Betrayal: The Death of John Paul the First, was returning from a book signing
at Giovanni’s Room, a gay and lesbian bookstore. The author, a noted gay pundit
and activist, revealed plans for a new book in which he claimed there would be
further information on the death of the one they call the Thirty Day Pope.
Police released no further information on Brandt or the assailant who is still
at large.”

I could hardly believe what I’d heard. The microwave bell dinged but I didn’t move. This had to be some kind of mistake. I’d just talked to Brandt and pegged him as a paranoid nut. This had to be a coincidence. And maybe I was going to be elected the next pope. How many times does a guy tell you he’s going to be murdered and then actually turns up dead and it’s a coincidence? The answer is none. I’d have to look into this case, if only for my own satisfaction.

B lurb: Murder on Camac

Gunned down in the street in an apparent mugging, author Helmut Brandt is at the center of a mystery with many layers. P.I. Marco Fontana is offered the case by Brandt’s partner who suspects that it was a premeditated attack. Brandt’s work on the death of Pope John Paul I angered people in and out of the Church and made him a number of enemies. His death occurs soon after Brandt claims to have evidence implicating people never before suspected in the Pope’s death and suggesting a wider conspiracy. Fontana is not a believer in coincidences and decides to take the case. A lapsed Catholic himself, he knows that uncovering Brandt’s killer means more than exposing a decades old plot to kill the Pope. It would spell ruin for those named in the documents Brandt claimed to have. He realizes also that these same people, having killed such a highly placed target, will not hesitate to kill a P.I. determined to learn the truth. Entering the lofty and secretive world of the Catholic Church, Fontana encounters forces bound on keeping him from the truth. Fontana manages to penetrate the upper levels of Philadelphia’s Catholic hierarchy but realizes that the web of power and deceit is every bit as intricate, tangled, and deadly as he imagined it might be. As the owner of StripGuyz, a troupe of male strippers he runs to help pay the bills, Fontana is familiar with the byways of Philly’s gayborhood as well as the seamier parts of Philadelphia’s gay underworld. But in this case, he finds that there is an even darker side to life in the City of Brotherly Love.

10-Year Anniversary Giveaway!

Leave a comment below for your chance to win a FREE Autographed copy of Murder on Camac, the first book in the popular Marco Fontana Mystery series! Winner will be chosen Friday, November 22, 2019 via drawing by the author.

Buy-Links:

Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/vstz86u

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More about author, Joseph R. G. De Marco



Click for website

Joseph R.G. DeMarco is the author of the Marco Fontana
mystery series which begins with Murder
on Camac, (Jade Mountain Books). His Doyle and Kord mystery series begins
with Family Bashings (JMS Books). He
is also author of the Vampire Inquisitor series: A Warning in Blood, and A
Battle in Blood (forthcoming). A number of his short stories have been
published in anthologies including Where
Crime Never Sleeps, the Quickies
series (1, 2, and 3 from Arsenal Pulp Press), Men Seeking Men, Charmed
Lives, and more. His nonfiction work appears in Paws and Reflect, Hey Paisan!,
The Encyclopedia of Men and Masculinities
(ABC- CLIO, 2003), We Are Everywhere,
Men’s Lives, The International Encyclopedia of Marriage and Family (Macmillan,
2002) and others. In the gay press he has been published in The Advocate, PGN, NY Native, and
others. He was Editor-in-Chief of the Weekly
Gayzette and NGL, contributing
editor for Il Don Gennaro, and is now
Editor/Publisher of Mysterical-E
(mystericale.com). You can learn more at www.josephdemarco.com

Exclusive Excerpt: The Unfinished by Jay B. Laws

Excerpt:

So why in the world did he always feel reluctant to open the
front door and step inside? Why this sinking heaviness, almost like sadness,
stealing into his heart. It wasn’t fear, exactly. More a growing wonder over
what might happen next.

He had barely completed that last thought when a shadowy,
amoeba-like shape rippled across and up his front door. Jiggs rubbed at his
dilated eye and blinked. It didn’t go away. Whatever it was moved like a heavy
liquid, fingers of it spilling upward toward the eaves of the roof. Without
being aware he was doing it, he squinted shut his left eye. There—again, the
elusive shimmer of heat-fanned waves as it curled and seemingly reabsorbed into
the boards of the house.

He took a moment, not knowing what he should do. He could
run up the street to Kate and Susan’s, but what then? Tell them about these
hunches, these intuitions, these visions which might possibly be just a trick
of his eyes?

His hand trembled as he turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door. Almost instantly the hairs on his arms stood on end. His skin went clammy. The interior hallway was dim, despite the midday brightness of the sunny afternoon. As he stepped inside he was suddenly, absolutely sure he was not alone in the house.

Purchas e from Amazon

Jiggs curbed his impulse to shout, “Hello?” His breathing
grew shallow as he shut the door. The sensation of someone watching from a
hidden corner latched onto him and would not loosen its grip. There was a
pregnancy to the stilled air, a heaviness that stole light. Something was
thickening the air into syrup.

God, this was crazy. Crazy. Where was he going to live, if
he was afraid of walking into his own house? He forced himself to walk down the
hallway and stare into his living room.

The rocking chair was moving. Back and forth, back and
forth. The leather seat sagged under an invisible weight, and something unseen
pressed against the pillow strapped to the back of the chair.

Jiggs stumbled backward, and may have even cried out in
surprise. He felt shot through with an electric jolt, sure that every hair on
his body now stood on end. His vocal cords were paralyzed; it was all he could
do just to swallow. While he watched, the rocker began to slow its rhythmic
back-and-forth movement. It came to a gentle halt. The cushions sprang back to
their normal shape, as though a weight pressing against it had lifted.

He cleared his throat. “Don’t mind me, guys,” he whispered,
hoping his voice was souffle-light, masking his tension. As soon as the words
fled his lips he was struck by what they implied: a kernel of belief that
suggested not something in the house, but someone.

A breeze rustled his hair, accompanied by an abrupt drop in
temperature. A biting cold moved through and around him—a meat locker cold,
like something frozen solid pushing past. If Jiggs had been shaken by the sight
of the rocking chair moving by itself, his fear then was nothing compared to
finding himself enveloped by this Arctic blast. The silent wind tugged at his
hair and clothes and seemed to want to burrow into his gaping mouth; he snapped
his jaw shut in reflex. He was afraid to breathe, afraid he’d see his breath
plume out in frosty, ghostly defiance of reality. He sucked in a breath and
tasted a horrible gravelly sludge in his mouth. The pebble-and-mud taste made
him gag and his stomach revolt. His eyes clamped shut. He raised fists next to
his ears. Very clearly he heard the scrape of a shovel as it skimmed across
metal.

His eyes blinked open. Something was above him. He tilted
his head further back and saw a shovel hanging in the air. Poised above his
head, it tipped. All at once a sludgy muck splattered onto his face. 

“Hey!” Jiggs cried out. His hands flew to cover his face.
The cold released him. The stunning image of the shovel released him. His mouth
still reacted to the taste of whatever it was, bitter and rocky. He peeked
through webbed fingers and lights danced across his vision, lights that warned
he’d better plant his behind onto a chair before he passed out. His legs were
loose and wobbly. In one fluid motion he collapsed onto the couch.

It was only much later, as he tried to put the experience
into perspective, that Jiggs realized he had heard the shovel dig its cargo
from the wheelbarrow.

It was the first sound he had consciously heard in over
twenty-two years.

* * *

Sometime in the dead hours of that morning, when night
wielded its tightest grip, a car horn shattered the silence. Jiggs came awake
with the blare of the second horn, and sat upright in bed, heart in his throat,
with the shrill of the third blast. His hands gripped each other, as though the
pressure would assure him he was awake.

Awake, and that he had heard a horn. Actually heard it.

He threw his legs over the side of the bed. He was
definitely awake, no ifs, ands, or buts about it, and if he heard the car horn
one more time he was going to spring from the bed and investigate. He didn’t
dare to think what it could mean.

He waited. The silence with which he had made an uneasy
truce over the years spun on and on, uninterrupted.

But the mystery nagged at him. Jiggs got out of bed and
padded over to the front door. He tugged back the flimsy curtain covering the
peephole window. Beyond the gate, sleek in the moonlight, waited the limousine.
With his face nearly pressed against the cool glass, he thought he could actually
hear the chug chug chug of the limo’s exhaust pipe. He felt his testicles crawl
into hiding at the sight—and sound—of it. His skin erupted into gooseflesh.
This isn’t happening. But the illusion moved. A back window glided open on
electric skates. The interior was a black maw against the gleaming white, with
no hint of what lay inside. Until the arm appeared.

It was shaped like an arm. Jiggs saw the crook of elbow, and
stubby fingers spread wide as though in signal. It just didn’t look like an
arm. It was covered with something viscous and gray. Blobs of it dripped onto
the side of the car as the hand motioned for Jiggs to step out of the house. It
reminded him of bird droppings.

“No,” he whispered. “No.” He could hear the engine of the
great machine idling, but he could not hear his own voice. The insanity of this
pulled him away from the curtain. He could look no more, and double-checked the
locks with trembling hands.

But he heard the limousine shift out of park into drive, as
it rolled away into the night.

Blurb:

Jiggs, a hearing-impaired gay man tortured by the recent death of his parents, moves into a long-vacant San Francisco apartment. The apartment is revealed to be haunted by the Unfinished, spirits whose lives ended prematurely through tragedy, violence or betrayal. Jiggs’s initially adversarial relationship with his spectral housemates soon becomes a partnership when both parties see each other as instrumental to ending their own suffering. The stories unfold via visitations by three Dickensian ghosts offering accounts of their deaths. In one story, a man dying from AIDS confronts the limits of his vanity when he realizes the terrible price of his wish to recapture his looks. In another, a car mechanic’s soul is left to ponder how his weakness led to his murder.

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Published by ReQueered Tales



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The Boystown Mysteries: 10 Year Anniversary by multi-Lambda Literary Award winning author, Marshall Thornton

Multi-Award Winning Boystown Mystery Series

The Lambda Award-winning Boystown Mysteries detail the cases of former police officer-turned-private investigator Nick Nowak. Set in Chicago and covering the period between 1981 and 1985, the twelve books of the series follow Nick as he struggles with memories of his abrupt departure from the CPD and the end of his long-term relationship with librarian Daniel Laverty. He moves through a series of casual tricks until he meets homicide detective Bert Harker with whom he begins a tentative relationship.

As cynical and difficult as
the city he calls home, Nick doggedly pursues his cases and often solves them
out of sheer stubbornness. He relies on help from a charming cast of
characters, who provide clues and comfort in equal measure. Beyond the mobsters
and murderers, Nick encounters a larger villain looming on the horizon. A
villain who begins striking down Nick’s friends and lovers, bringing the
freewheeling fun of the early eighties to an end.

For the tenth anniversary of
the series, here is an excerpt from the very first book, Boystown: Three Nick
Nowak Mysteries, published in November 2009.

Excerpt: Little Boy Fallen

Always be careful who you trick with. I should have that tattooed
on my forehead so I can see it every morning when I shave.

The woman was waiting for me when I got to my office. She looked
to be in her late forties, thick around the hips, busty. There was lot of red
lipstick caked onto her lips, and her hair was done up in a way that had
probably gotten a lot of attention during the Eisenhower administration. At
first, I thought she was a patient of the dentist down the hall, but when I
pulled my keys out and started to unlock the door, she came over.

“Are you Mr. Nowak?” she asked.

A few weeks shy of my thirty-third birthday, I didn’t much like
being called ‘mister’ by anyone who wasn’t still in grammar school. “You can
call me Nick.”

I opened the door and led her into my tiny office. The furniture
was crammed together, and still I had room left over for a dead corn plant in
one corner. The window was big, taking up most of the outer wall. Eight floors
below was LaSalle Street. Across the way stood an ultra-modern, steel and glass
building that was so tall it cut out most of my light.

“He said you were nice,” she commented, while making herself
comfortable in my guest chair. She wore a red cloth coat with a white fox
collar. Instead of a purse, she carried a photo album, clutching it tight to
her chest.

I hung my suede jacket on the back of my door and pulled a box of
Marlboros out of the pocket. I decided not to ask who ‘he’ was. Not yet.
Instead, I asked, “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Helen Borlock.” I sat down at my desk and lit a cigarette while
she talked. “He told me to come. He said you’d help. You can help, can’t you?”

“I don’t know if I can help,” I said honestly. “I don’t know why
you’re here.”

She gave me a confused look, as though I should know why she was
there. “Bobby told me to come. He said you’d help.”

“Bobby who?”

“Bobby Martin.”

I was pretty sure I didn’t know a Bobby Martin and said so.

“Bobby was my son’s roommate. One of them, I mean. There were four
of them living there. Sweet boys, always laughing. The apartment is on Clark
and Fullerton. They did it up nice. Every room a different color.”

I still hadn’t a clue who she was talking about.

Abruptly, she held out the photo album. “This is my Lenny.” To be
polite, I took the album. “I never wanted to name him Leonard. My husband
insisted. He’d had a friend, in the Marines. Wanted to name his son Leonard,
after his friend. The friend died, you see.”

I flipped the album open. There was Helen with an infant. I was
right. In her day, Helen had been a looker. I flipped a few pages and Lenny
began to grow up. Looked like he was on his way to being a looker, too.

“What is it Bobby thought I could help you with?”

She glanced out the window like she suddenly needed to check the
weather. It was overcast and threatening to rain or, worse, throw in one last
snowstorm for the winter. After a little sigh, she said, “Three weeks ago, my
son was murdered.”

“Mrs. Borlock, I’m a private investigator. I don’t investigate
murders. The police do that.”

“They don’t care. Lenny is just another pervert to them.”

I waited a few moments, considering. I was telling her the truth.
It wasn’t the kind of thing I did. Or at least tried not to do. Mainly I did
background checks, skip traces, once in a while a little surveillance. That was
it. Murder was different. Yes, I used to be a policeman, but I’d only worked a
beat. I’d never been a detective. In the nearly six years I spent on the job,
when it came to murder I’d never done much more than secure a crime scene and
make sure witnesses stayed put.

“Can you afford a private investigator?”

“Yes. I always put a little aside for Lenny. Ever since he was a
little boy.” She stared at her hands, which seemed particularly empty now that
I was flipping through the photo album. “I used to think I’d give him the money
on his wedding. He was sixteen when I figured out that was never going to
happen, so for a while I thought I’d give him the money to go to college. But
he was never book smart. Last couple of years, I’ve been waiting to see, did he
maybe want to start a business or get a nice beau and buy a house.” Her voice
turned bitter. “I should have given it to him. Should have let him spend on
whatever he wanted.”

She looked like she might break down, but fortunately she didn’t.
I took the final drag off my cigarette and stubbed it out. Against my better
judgment, I said, “Tell me what happened to Lenny.”

“Someone pushed him off the seventh floor of the atrium at Water
Tower.”

That seemed pretty cut and dried. “Were there witnesses?”

“It was a little after ten in the morning.”

“No one saw him being pushed?”

She shook her head.

“So, how do you know he was pushed?”

Mrs. Borlock pursed her lips. Tears popped into her eyes and
threatened to spill over onto her cheeks. “You’re going to tell me my boy
killed himself, just like the police.”

“Right now, I’m not telling you anything. Right now, I’m asking
questions. How do you know he was pushed?”

“I just know,” she spat. “I know Lenny. And he wouldn’t kill
himself.”

“Why wouldn’t Lenny kill himself?” I was expecting a lame answer,
like she’d raised him as a good Catholic, and, since it was against God’s law,
he wouldn’t do it. But she didn’t say that. She said something completely
different.

“Lenny was the happiest person I ever met.”

* * *

That afternoon, I hopped on the El and got off at Diversey rather
than going all the way to my regular stop at Belmont. I turned away from DePaul
and walked toward the lake. Mrs. Borlock had given me the address of the
apartment her son shared with three roommates, one of whom was the mysterious
Bobby Martin.

At first, I wasn’t sure it had been a good idea to take the case.
Logic told me the kid had killed himself. Yes, his mother thought he was the
happiest person she’d ever met. But suicidal tendencies are exactly the kind of
thing children hide from their parents. If the police thought it was suicide,
then in all likelihood it was suicide. I had my issues with the Chicago PD, but
that didn’t mean they did sloppy work.

So, why’d I take the case? Mrs. Helen Borlock, that’s why. Someone
needed to help her. Not to find her son’s murderer; there was no murderer. She
didn’t understand why her son killed himself, and she needed to understand. She
needed the reason. As I rang the bell to her son’s apartment, I promised myself
I’d find it for her.

I got buzzed into the building and climbed the stairs. On the
second floor, a door sprang open and a boy in his early twenties stood there
looking me up and down. He had short brown hair, a heavy five o’clock shadow, a
small mustache hanging out beneath his nose on what looked like a temporary
basis, and a pair of impossibly large glasses. He was short, real short. About
five four, which made me nearly a foot taller. He was wearing a pair of gray
gym shorts with the name of some high school partially rubbed off and not much
else. He had decent legs and a tight chest, both covered with lots of dark
hair. In the background, the Go-Gos got the beat.

“You’re not Bobby, are you?” I asked, though I was pretty sure I’d
have remembered him if he was.

“I’m Freddie. Who are you?” Without waiting to find out, he turned
and went back into the apartment. I followed him in. The living room was
painted an antacid pink. Over an aqua-colored vinyl sofa that looked like it
was stolen from a bus station was a large painting. Globs of paint arranged
themselves to form a large, erect, rainbow penis. At its base, the painter had
glued several handfuls of what looked like dryer lint.

Freddie lifted the needle off the record and the Go-Gos were
silenced. He gave me the once-over a second time. “You’re looking for Bobby?
Why? Did someone send you as a present? He’ll be—”

“I’m Nick Nowak. I’m a private investigator. Mrs. Borlock hired me
to look into Lenny’s death.”

“Oh, my.” Behind his glasses he blinked a few times. He was one of
those guys with eyelashes so dark and thick it made you wonder if he was
wearing mascara.

“What’s your last name, Freddie?”

“Twombly,” he said. “Isn’t it terrible? It sounds like I’m
lisping. Even when I’m not.” He lit an extra-long cigarette. I decided to be
sociable and pulled out my Marlboros.

“You mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Only if they’re personal,” he said playfully. He hooked a finger
into the elastic band of his shorts, dragging them down over his hip. I
struggled to keep my focus on lighting my cigarette.

“Why do you think Lenny killed himself?” It was the question of
the hour, so I figured I’d start there.

Freddie stopped being playful and sat on the sofa. It squeaked. “I
don’t think Lenny killed himself. No one thinks that.”

I had hoped it would be easier than this. “Why do you say that?”

“Jumping? At Water Tower? It’s so dramatic. Lenny wasn’t a drama
queen. Actually, I’m the drama queen in the house. Everything upsets me, but
nothing upset Lenny. He was always mellow.”

“So, what do you think happened?”

Freddie shrugged. “Isn’t it your job to figure that out?”

“Do you mind if I look at Lenny’s room? And then maybe ask you a
few more questions?”

He picked up the ashtray and walked out of the room. “Come on.
It’s this way. Lenny and I share a room.”

I followed Freddie down the hallway. Just above the waistband of
his shorts, he had dimples in the small of his back, one on each side. Halfway
down the hall he turned, and we were in a small bedroom crammed with two twin
mattresses, a schoolhouse desk, and another penis picture with lint for pubic
hair—this one was flaccid.

The walls were painted an electric blue, and the ceiling was
black. One of the mattresses was stripped naked, showing its sweat stains. The
other wore pink polka-dotted sheets. On the bare mattress was a box filled with
odds and ends from around the apartment—a frying pan, a picture, some juice
glasses from the fifties.

Freddie watched as I looked over the room. I didn’t know exactly
what I was looking for. Hints, I suppose, little clues as to why Lenny might
have killed himself: angry letters from creditors, love letters from a failed romance,
the complete works of Sylvia Plath. Anything.

“Did Lenny have money problems?” I asked.

“It’s a two-bedroom apartment and there are four of us. We all
have money problems.” I looked into the closet. “The left side is his,” Freddie
volunteered.

“What about boyfriends? Was he involved with anyone?”

“No. Lenny had sex. He tricked and stuff, but there wasn’t anyone
serious.”

I moved Lenny’s clothes around. Stuck my hand in the pockets of
his coats. Freddie continued chattering. “I used to be Bobby’s boyfriend. So
did Chuck, our other roommate, but only for about five minutes. Bobby tricked
with Lenny, which is what broke Bobby and I up, though at this point I can’t
remember why I cared.” He gasped suddenly. “Oh, my God! You’re gonna think I
killed Lenny for having sex with Bobby! That’s just ridiculous. It was a year
and a half ago for God’s sake. In gay years that’s like a decade. Besides I
have an alibi.”

“You don’t need an alibi. Lenny killed himself.”

He was silent for a moment. “I wish people who didn’t even know
Lenny would stop saying that.” He stuck out his chin. “Lenny’s mom doesn’t
think he killed himself. I don’t think she’s paying you to prove something she
doesn’t believe.”

“I’m sure she’ll be satisfied if I can tell her why Lenny did it.”

Freddie huffed his disagreement. I lifted the lid to the
schoolhouse desk. In the drawer beneath there were Lenny’s bills, his bank
statements, some time cards, and an address book. I picked up the address book
and flipped through it. Mostly first names.

“I’m supposed to be getting ready for a party. It’s Bobby’s
birthday. That’s why I thought you might be a present.” He paused dramatically.
“You know, like in Boys in the Band.”

“Yeah, I know. It was at The Parkway two months ago.” Not that I’d
particularly enjoyed it. They were a whiny bunch. But it did prompt me to ask,
“How did Lenny feel about being gay?”

“I don’t think he thought about it much. He was too busy sucking
cock.” I suppose it was meant to shock me, but it didn’t. “I knew you were gay
the minute you walked in,” Freddie continued.

“Oh yeah? What gave me away?”

“I’m almost naked. You keep pretending not to notice. Pretend
being the operative word.”

It’s embarrassing, but I’m used to guys flirting with me. I’m six
foot three and weigh about two-ten. I work out a few times a week to make sure
the scale doesn’t tick much higher. That month, my dark hair was just beginning
to curl since I needed a haircut. I was thinking about giving a beard a try, or
maybe I was just being lazy. Either way, in addition to my mustache, there was
heavy stubble all over my face. Trouble, in the form of boys who look like
Freddie, always seems to find me. I guess that means I’m good looking.

“Tell me more about Lenny,” I asked, ignoring his flirting.

“Lenny wrote poetry. Dreadful poetry. I can show you some if you
want, but my guess is Mrs. Borlock isn’t paying you enough to actually read
it.” He pointed to a stack of black and white composition books by Lenny’s
mattress. I shook my head. I might have to read them sometime, but hopefully I
could figure this out without them.

I picked up Lenny’s bank statements and flipped through them.

“We’re all artsy, the four of us. Bobby is an actor. I’m a
painter, a primitive representationalist. I work mostly in acrylics and found
objects.” He paused, waiting for me to look up at the painting over his bed and
compliment it. I stuck to the bank statements, so he continued, “Chuck is in a
band called The Wigs. It’s glam rock. They all wear makeup and have pretty hair,
but Chuck’s the only one who’s gay. They’re touring. Well, I mean they have a
gig in Bloomington.”

Contrary to what Freddie had said, Lenny wasn’t broke. His most
recent bank balance was nearly four thousand dollars. I flipped back over the
past few months. His previous balances were significantly smaller, usually
never more than six or seven hundred at the most. He’d even overdrawn the
account a few times. I went back to the most recent statement. Halfway down the
page, there was a circled deposit for three thousand, five hundred, and
sixty-four dollars.

“Did Lenny come into some money recently?”

“No.”

“What did he do for money?”

“Oh, we’re all temps. It’s very flexible. We work for a service
called Carolyn’s Crew. Carolyn’s great. She used to be an actress, so she
understands.”

“She give bonuses?”

“Oh, yeah. If you stay on an assignment for two months, you get a
hundred dollars. Then two hundred at six months. Lenny was about to get his
second bonus.”

“Lenny had been on the assignment for a while, then?”

“He was having a rough time of it, though.”

“What do you mean a rough time?”

“Well, I’m not sure. He talked about his boss a lot, this guy
named Campbell. Obviously, the guy had money. No one names their kid Campbell
unless they’re also giving him a trust fund. One minute Lenny adored the guy,
and the next he hated him. I think Lenny had a crush and it wasn’t going well.”

“Do you think they might have had a relationship?”

“No, if Lenny was having sex with someone he wouldn’t shut up
about it. Seriously, I can tell you the size of every dick he’s touched for the
last two years.” He looked at me expectantly, like I might ask him to do so.
Curtly, he said, “I’m trying to seduce you, but you seem not to notice.”

“I notice.”

Freddie watched me, waiting for me to make a move. When I didn’t,
he padded over to me. Frowning, he looked up and asked, “Are you trying to hurt
my feelings?” He was so short I had to practically pick him up to kiss him.

Of course, I knew I shouldn’t have sex with him. It wasn’t what
you’d call a reliable interrogation technique. But he didn’t seem to know why
Lenny killed himself, didn’t even think Lenny did kill himself, so it was hard
to see the harm in it.

Pushing me away, Freddie flopped down on the bed and, lifting his
hips, slid off his gym shorts. His dick was semi-hard in anticipation and
belonged on a much bigger man. I slipped off my jacket and began to undo the
underarm holster holding my 9mm Sig Sauer.

“No,” Freddie said with a devilish smile. “Leave that on.”

I threw my jacket on the floor and joined Freddie on the bed.
Taking him into my arms, I kissed him long and deep. There was something sexy
about his being completely naked and my having most of my clothes still on. My
hard-on rubbed against his, the cotton of my jeans making it all the more
exciting. He pulled away from me and looked into my eyes. “You’re a good
kisser.”

I thanked him for the compliment by kissing him some more. His
hands were in my jeans, working to unbutton them and set my dick free. Once he
got it into the open, he gave an appreciative little growl. He jerked me a few
times and then rubbed our cocks together.

“This is going to be so good,” he whispered, then rolled over and
spooned his naked butt into my lap. I ran my hands across his chest, pinching
his nipples. He reached behind himself, grabbing my dick and rubbing the head
along the crack of his ass.

His breathing began to come faster, and, somewhat abruptly, he
reached around the edge of the mattress and pulled out a small container of
Vaseline. Quickly, he lubed up my dick and his pucker hole. Before I slid my
dick in, he said, “Take it easy at first.”

I fucked him slowly for a bit, lying there on my side with my
pants down around my knees, giving him time to relax into it. Soon, though, I became
impatient and pushed him over until he was face down. I crawled on top of him
and slipped my cock back into him. He groaned happily.

My hands on his hips, I had to splay my legs wide to get a good
angle. I thrust into him until the muscles on the insides of my legs began to
ache. I pulled my legs closer together and lifted him up with me. His knees
were off the bed, his ass practically floating in front of me as I pounded into
him. His moaning began to blend into one long keening sound that reminded me of
a siren.

Then I flipped him over. I wanted to see the look on his face
while I screwed him. When he looked up at me, he stopped moaning and grinned. I
slid back into him. “Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered.

Taking his cock into my hand, I started to jack him off. Matching
each stroke with a thrust. He pushed my hand away. “You’re going to make me
come too soon.”

I wanted to make him come, though, so I fucked him harder and
faster. My holstered gun bounced against my ribs. He arched his hips, meeting
each thrust. His hard cock bounced on his belly, and then he was coming. I
reached out and jerked him a few times to help him along. All the while, I kept
fucking him.

When he stopped spasming, Freddie said, “Pull it out. I want to
see you come.”

I pulled out of him and began to jack myself off. It only took a
few pumps and I was coming all over Freddie’s reddened dick and his already
sticky belly. I collapsed on top of him. He slipped his arms around me and
squeezed me close.

When he’d caught his breath, he said, “I hope this means you’ll
try extra hard to find out what happened to Lenny.”

I pulled away from him, “Is that what this is about? You fucked me
so I’d do a good job?”

“No, I fucked you because you’re sexy. But I can still ask for
special treatment, can’t I?”

“I always do a good job,” I said.

He shrugged. “You never asked for my alibi.”

“Okay, tell me your alibi.” Obviously, he was eager to do so.

“The night before Lenny died, I got drunk off my ass on Long
Island Iced Teas and took the bus in the wrong direction! This big, burly black
guy took pity on me. After that, all I remember is holding onto a bathroom sink
in some apartment while the black guy fucked the living daylights out of me. I
woke up the next morning around eleven. I had no idea where I was.” He watched
me to see what kind of reaction his story might get.

I didn’t know what the big deal was with his alibi. Was he that
desperate to display his sexual prowess? Did he want to present himself as some
kind of slut? Was this his way of saying, “don’t take what we just did too
seriously”?

I dead-panned it. “Could you find this guy again?”

“Probably not.”

“Then it’s not an alibi, is it?”

He frowned. “Oh. I guess not.”

I rolled over and looked at him. “Can you think of anything else
that might be important?”

Freddie thought for a moment, then smiled. “He would have liked
you. That’s for sure. You’re just his type.”

It was time for me to leave, so I got off the bed. My hands and
cock were still gooey with Vaseline. “Which way is the bathroom?”

“It’s right across the hall.”

With my pants around my ankles, I had to waddle across the hall.
When I got halfway to the john, the front door opened and in walked Bobby
Martin. Immediately, I remembered him. I’d picked him up at The Loading Zone a
couple months before. I never saw him after that. We hadn’t exchanged numbers.

He took a moment to look me up and down. My greasy shirttails, my
red, sticky cock hanging out, my hairy knees. He smiled and said, “Well, nice
to see you again.”

I wanted to punch someone.

Author Bio



Click for website

Marshall Thornton writes two popular mystery series, the  Boystown Mysteries and the Pinx Video Mysteries. He has won the Lambda Award for Gay Mystery three times. His romantic comedy, Femme was also a 2016 Lambda finalist for Best Gay Romance. Other books include My Favorite Uncle, The Ghost Slept Over and Masc, the sequel to Femme. He is a member of Mystery Writers of America.

Exclusive Excerpt: Flight by K’Anne Meinel

Excerpt:

Jess had a lifetime pass to ride Into the Air, a family perk but also due to her wife’s sacrifice.  Few, if any, abused this privilege.  Technically, she flew standby, and she had to dress as a representative of the airline.  That didn’t bother her though.  She liked dressing nicely and did so for work all the time.  She just had to make sure she didn’t dress in jeans and a sweat shirt as they didn’t appreciate that.  She also had no guarantee of first-class privileges but would be bumped up if they could accommodate her.  She was lucky this time.  She boarded the plane in New York, and her first-class seat was waiting for her on the trip to Antwerp, Belgium.

She leaned back in the luxurious seat and enjoyed the ride, oblivious of the fact that she probably knew the pilot and trying not to think of the things that could happen to a plane, as they had to her beloved wife.  Instead, she tried to enjoy the flight: reading the magazines the airline provided, savoring the excellent meal that Into the Air was known for, and meeting her fellow passengers.  She chatted easily about her career as a decorator and enjoyed herself immensely.

Click to purchase

Jess
had only a moment of fear as they landed at Antwerp Deurne airport, but she had
often experienced that and knew it had nothing to do with her wife’s death or the
crash.  A taxi whisked her from the airport
to her hotel, and she checked in, enjoying the well-appointed surroundings and
the old-world charm.  The décor was something
she appreciated at any time, and she drank it all in as the staff showed her to
her room.  After taking a small nap, Jess
felt rested and went out to explore the city.  She found some of the jewelry stores that
catered to tourists and went looking for a bargain, not only in jewelry but also
in the diamonds that Antwerp was known for. 
She smiled as she looked at the expensive displays.  Some were better quality than what she owned, and
some weren’t nearly as nice as her collection. 
She enjoyed herself as she wandered around, getting lost half a dozen
times as she explored.  She finally
called a taxi to take her back to her hotel, realizing too late that she was a mere
block away.  It was amusing, and she
tipped the taxi driver for their discretion.

The
next day, Jess took a taxi to the address on the paperwork and arrived at a
rather imposing, old building made of large blocks of cut stone, its grey
coloring mirroring the sky above.  She
looked at the monstrous door and saw there were no handles on it.  Nor were there any attendants.  She thought about it for a moment, aware that
she was under surveillance by the high-tech cameras mounted above the door, but
unable to figure out how to get into the building.  There was a small pillar at the bottom of the
three steps leading into the building.  She
looked at it bemusedly for a long time before she became aware there was a
small, triangular hole in it.  Thinking
for a moment, she fished out her wife’s set of keys, which she had brought along.
 She realized the odd, little key that
had given her the address must fit in this hole.  Carefully, she inserted it.  At first, it didn’t fit, and she realized she was
holding it wrong.  She turned the
triangle upright and it slipped right in. 
The door began to open slowly, ponderously, and she pulled the key out to
walk up the stairs and enter a rather elaborate lobby.  

This
was unlike any bank she had ever seen before; there was just one man behind the
counter.  She walked up.

“Hallo,”
he said with a delighted smile, as though she were a long-lost friend.

“Hello,”
she repeated back, wondering if he spoke English.  Her worries were immediately cast out with
his next words.

“Ah,
you are American!” he sounded just as delighted as he had been at her
arrival. 

“Um,
yeah,” she said and then held up the triangular key that opened the door.  “I have this key…” she began uncertainly.

“You
have never been here before?” he sounded even more delighted, if that were
possible, and he smiled widely at her.

“No,
I haven’t.”  She wondered what this was
about.

“Many
inherit these keys, and sometimes, the instructions are lost,” he explained.  “Let me show you,” he explained as he came
out from behind the counter to show her how the key fit another door.  He punched in a code on a keypad that came up
and another set of doors opened, this one opening just as ponderously as the
outside door.  “Our depositors are
looking for high-end security,” he explained. 
“This is one of the safest vaults in the world,” he assured her.  “If you have your account number, you can use
your key to withdraw your box.”  He
indicated another post like the one outside where her key would fit. 

She
now knew how it fit, so she got that one right on the first try.  A panel came up for her to type on.  She backed away, expecting him to type on it.

“You
enter your account number,” he explained, indicating the screen.  “You have as much time as you want.  If you need any refreshments, please help
yourself.”  His hands encompassed the
well-appointed room, which was set up like a library and had a bar and fridge at
one end. 

Not
wanting to appear too naïve, but having no idea how this worked, she asked,
“What if I don’t remember my account number?”

He
turned from where he had been about to make an exit.  “That would be very unfortunate.  The passkey,” he indicated the one in the small
kiosk, “is coded to the account number that was taken out when the vault was
assigned.”  He left her with a smile, but
before he closed the doors, he guaranteed her, “Your privacy is assured.”

Jess
stared blankly at the closed doors and looked around the room.  This was way beyond her, way beyond anything
she could fathom.  What had her wife needed
such a vault for?  What in the world had
Lena been involved in?  She looked
thoughtfully at the screen and wondered what Lena would have possibly used as an
account number?  Jess saw there was room
for seven numbers.  She thought she had
known Lena after all their time together, but now, she worried if she had ever really
known her.

Think, she ordered herself.  She had
known Lena.  She had known her wife!  She couldn’t
allow the doubts that Andy planted in her psyche so long ago make her ever
doubt her wife.  Lena had been a simple
airplane pilot, not the smuggler they had implied.  They had receipts for the things she had
brought back from her trips.  Why would anyone
think Lena was involved in anything illegal? 
“Think,” she said aloud, and then it hit her.  They had both been big fans of eighties music
and a seven-digit code just might be that song they had both loved.  Carefully she typed in 8, 6, 7, 5, 3, 0, and
then, very hesitantly, she typed the number 9. 
The tune was playing in her head, but she was starting to sweat as she entered
that last digit.  Now, what?  She looked around, waiting for something, but
nothing happened.  She looked down at the
pad again, exasperated, and noticed it was waiting for her.  Then she saw the word “enter.”  With sweat breaking out again, she pressed the
enter key, not knowing what would happen. 
She was surprised when it flashed the word ‘correct’ on the screen and
closed the pad to her.  The window in
front of her lowered, and a conveyor belt became visible to her.  A gigantic arm moved around in a large arc and
plucked what looked like a tote from a shelf. 
She watched as something out of the future, some type of robotic arm
seemed to place the tote on the conveyor belt, and it rolled out in front of
her.  She looked around the room,
wondering what she should do with it.

Noticing
the fasteners on the tote, she flipped them one at a time until she was able to
lift off the lid.  She carefully placed
it beside the tote while she looked inside. 
There was a pile of papers, which she reached for and began to look
through.  One of them was for a house in
a town called Kanne Riemst.  Why would
Lena have needed a house in Belgium, Jess wondered?  Putting that aside, she looked through the paperwork
and found a statement for a bank account located at this very address.  She pulled out the paperwork of the wife
benefit insurance policy to see where the monies had been paid, and the accounts
matched!  Her eyebrow raised at the balance
in the account.  What was this?  Why had Lena needed this bank account in
Belgium?

She
couldn’t read all the papers as some were in Dutch and some contained the
German translation.  That did her no good.
 She had only taken French in school,
back in the day, and she hadn’t been a very good student.

Thinking
the paperwork in this high security vault wasn’t needed, given the expense of
renting one, she was about to replace the lid when she realized the tote wasn’t
empty.  Because it was all black inside
the tote, she hadn’t realized there were black velvet bags lining the bottom.  She had thought the material was part of the
tote.  She lifted out the first one, then
another and another and another and still, there was one more remaining.  Frowning, Jess carefully opened what looked
like a jeweler’s bag.  Shocked, she saw
the sparkle of what was contained in the bag. 
Very gently, she poured the contents into her hand…the diamonds cascading
like thick water. 

Jess’
heart was beating like a drum.  This was
proof that her wife must have been a smuggler. 
This must be how Lena afforded the down payment on their house and land,
land, that while overgrown and abandoned, had been valuable and expensive
because it was on the ocean.  That meant Lena
must have been doing this for a very long time. 

Jess
looked in the other bags, finding similar caches of diamonds.  One bag held what looked like garnets but might
be rubies?  Jess did not know, but she
wondered how in the world her wife had acquired these valuable items.  She closed the bags and returned them to the
tote, wondering what she was going to do with her discovery?  She could go to the authorities, who would
demand that she turn them over, but how would that look?  She might be implicated.  Her reputation and her wife’s legacy would be
destroyed.  And what about Tabitha?

Jess
sat down to try and think clearly, absentmindedly looking at the paperwork as
she thought.  Trying to think rationally,
she realized, even without knowing the actual value of the stones, that the monies
represented in the bags were staggering. 
It was scaring her beyond measure to think of what she had in her possession.

She
had been prepared to come to the bank, ask about her wife’s account, and take
possession of it.  She had even brought a
copy of Lena’s certified death certificate, her will, and their marriage certificate
along, planning to give them to the bank to prove who she was.  She hadn’t expected…this.  What the hell was she going to do with it all?  If she just showed up with all this money,
the IRS would become suspicious, and with the governments suspicions about Lena
being a smuggler, they would confiscate everything.  The FBI would have no problem arresting her and
asking questions later.  Wouldn’t Interpol
and the NTSB be interested as well? 
Conspiracy theories would abound. 
Their lives would be ruined…forever.

Blurb:

A tragic explosion results in the death of over 200 airplane passengers. Was the explosion caused by pilot error, or was it a conspiracy?

Pilot Cathalene (Lena) Penn, accused by the airline of being a smuggler, died in the tragedy, and her wife, Jessica is desperate to clear Lena’s good name. When Jessica travels to Belgium, her wife’s home away from home, she discovers diamonds, a second family, and a mystery…

Sometimes, choosing between what is safe and what is right isn’t easy, and running away is always an option…Flight!

About Author K’Anne Meinel



Click for K’Anne Meinel’s website

K’Anne Meinel is a prolific best-selling fiction writer with more than one hundred published works including shorts, novellas, and novels.  She is an American author born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and raised outside of Oconomowoc.  Upon early graduation from high school, she went to a private college in Milwaukee and then moved to California for seventeen years before returning to the state.  Many of her stories are noted for being realistic, with wonderfully detailed backgrounds and compelling story-lines.  Called the Danielle Steel of her time, K’Anne continues to write interesting stories in a variety of genres in both the lesbian and mainstream fiction categories.  Her website is @ www.kannemeinel.com.  K’Anne is also the publisher and owner of Shadoe Publishing, LLC @ www.shadoepublishing.com and in December 2017 she started the Lesfic Bard Awards @ www.lesficbardawards.com.  In December 2018 she launched the Gay Scribe Awards @ www.gayscribeawards.com in hopes of duplicating the first year’s success of the Lesfic Bard Awards and to showcase more LGBT literature.

Exclusive Excerpt: Pumpkin Eater: A Dan Sharp Mystery (Book 2) by Jeffrey Round

Excerpt:

Four faces looked up expectantly as Dan
entered the room. Seated with the two officers he’d encountered at the morgue
were the chief of police and Dan’s former boss, Ed Burch.

    
“Hello, Ed. Fancy meeting you here.”

    
“Good to see you again, Dan.”

    
The chief stood to shake his hand, introducing the two officers as Danes
and Pfeiffer.

    
“Thanks for coming to meet us. The reason we’ve asked you here today, Dan,
as I’m sure you realize, is because of the body you discovered at the old
slaughterhouse last night.”

    
“The man’s name was Darryl Hillary,” Dan said.

    
The chief’s cool blue eyes stayed on him, taking his measure like any
good tailor or undertaker.

    
“Yes, of course. And I understand you were hired to find him by his
sister.”

    
“Darlene Hillary. That is correct.”

     “For reasons of discretion, I have to ask you to keep to yourself what I’m about to disclose. Are you good with that?”

Click to Purchase

    
Dan inclined his head. “I’d have to know what it is first, but if it’s
above-board and nothing to do with me then I can give you a reasonable
assurance I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

    
The chief looked to Ed. “You described him pretty well, Ed.”

    
“Dan’s a straight shooter,” Ed said.

    
The chief gave him another shrewd look, as though trying to decide how
much to confide in him.
As far as Dan was
concerned, they’d invited him to this game of poker, so it was up to them to
reveal their hand first.

     “I won’t mince words here, Dan. The reason we’ve asked you to come by today is because Ed suggested you might help us.”

    
Dan’s ear picked up. This was the first he’d heard of being asked to
help the police. He turned to Ed, who took up the narrative briefly.

     “That’s right, Daniel. I’ve been asked to work as a special consultant on the case, in light of my capacity as a former police officer. When I heard
what was being asked, I suggested you might have a part to play in it.”

    
The chief’s icy eyes travelled from Ed back to Dan. “We believe
yesterday’s murder is related to a larger investigation into a child
prostitution ring, which has taken on the proportions of a Canada-wide
operation.” He indicated the two officers. “Detective Danes was assigned to
lead the operation in the GTA. With Hillary’s murder, Constable Pfeiffer has
just taken over as evidence officer. That’s where Ed felt you might help us,
Dan.”

    
Dan noted how the chief liked to say his name, as though to bring him
further into his confidence.

     The chief continued. “With this recent death, we feel we may have the makings of a serial killer on our hands. This past spring, an ex-priest was
murdered in Quebec. Like the victim you found earlier this week, he was
severely beaten and had his left ear cut off.” The chief paused. “You may
recall that part of the National Sex Offenders Registry was dumped on the
Internet last year. Both the ex-priest and Hillary were named on it.”

    
Dan recalled reports of the incident, the inconclusive findings as to
whether it had been deliberate or not. He held up a finger. “Excuse me. Was it
proved to be an accident? The names being dumped on the Internet?”

    
The chief nodded. “We still don’t know how it got there, but the
information was deliberately released by person or persons unknown.”

    
The registry was created to compile information, including current
addresses, phone numbers and identifying markings such as tattoos that would
enable police officers to finger possible suspects in sex-related crimes.
Providing up-to-date personal information was mandatory on the part of the
offenders. The public was never supposed to have access to the list, however.
That the registry had been leaked on the Internet was cause for alarm for any number
of reasons, including the possibility that someone might try to harm or kill
anybody named in it, as seemed to have been the case here.

    
“So you think someone is targeting known sex offenders?”

    
The chief nodded. “The only thing linking the two victims is that both
names were on the Sex Offenders Registry and they both had their left ear cut
off.” He scrutinized Dan’s face. “Are you fine with everything we’ve told you
so far?”

    
“Sure.” Dan nodded. “But I still don’t know why you’re telling me this.”

    
The chief opened a file. Clipped to the dossier was the photograph of a
young man in jeans and a sweatshirt. His cherubic face and curly dark hair made
him look like the junior member of a boy band.

    
“This is the chief suspect in the murder of the ex-priest, Guillaume
Thierry. He was an altar boy at the church in Montreal where Thierry worked. Eventually,
Thierry went to jail for eight years and was released two months before his
murder.” He put a finger on the photograph. “The young man’s name is Gaetan
Bélanger.”

    
Dan nodded. “Why do you think it was Bélanger instead of one of the
other abuse victims?”

    
“Speculation, mostly, but he was heard uttering death threats against Thierry
when he was released.”

    
“Anything connecting him to Hillary?”

     “Nothing yet. What we know of this kid since his molestation is that he’s lived by thievery. He was caught twice over the past few years. The
first time he was caught stealing from a church — not the one where he was
molested, but I’m sure there was a connection in his mind.”

    
“But why kill Hillary?” Dan asked. “Why not murder another priest?”

     “We’re not sure why, but the missing ear tells
us it’s Bélanger. It seems to be his signature.”

     Pfeiffer spoke up. “All our data indicates that Bélanger is holed up somewhere in Toronto. He may have been here for several months already.”

    
Dan considered this. “Then why not put all your efforts into finding
him?”

    
Pfeiffer’s expression hardened. “Oh, we’ll find him all right,” he said
with the sort of burning zeal Dan distrusted in authority figures. “But we’d
prefer to find him before he kills again.”

    
“Well, it’s all very intriguing,” Dan said. “But I still don’t understand
how I can be of help.”

     The chief smiled. “You are here because of the swiftness and accuracy of your search for Darryl Hillary. We understand you located him in
less than three days. That’s impressive.”

    
Dan shook his head. “Still, I’m not a police officer and as far as I
know the police force doesn’t hire outside. So, again, I ask why I’m here.”

     The chief looked at Burch then at Dan. “Ed said that you have some very good contacts on the street. I’m told they are contacts the police are
not always privy to. We would like access to those sources.”

    
Dan sat back. At last it was clear. He shook his head.

    
“Even if I gave you the names of the people I use, I doubt any of them
would help you. Most of them live off the grid and would not willingly have
anything to do with the police, if they could help it. You might say that money
talks, but I’m sure you realize there are some things even money can’t buy.”

    
“They wouldn’t need to know,” the chief said.

    
Dan shook his head and stood up. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I can’t help
you.”

Blurb

Dan Sharp searches the seamy underbelly of the city for a brutal killer.

Following
an anonymous tip, missing persons investigator Dan Sharp makes a grisly find in
a burned-out slaughter­house in Toronto’s west end. Someone is targeting known
sex offenders whose names and identities were released on the Internet. When an
iconic rock star contacts Dan to keep from becoming the next victim, things
take a curious turn. Dan’s search for a killer takes him underground in
Toronto’s broken social scene — a secret world of misfits and guerrilla
activists living off the grid — where he hopes to find the key to the murders.

About Author Jeffrey Round



Jeffrey Round’s Amazon Page

Jeffrey Round is the Lambda-winning author of the Dan Sharp
mystery series. A native of Toronto, he is currently creating a writers retreat
in rural Mississippi.