Summary:
Saint Brothers #1
Christmas is a time for joy, family, and friends to gather around the tree and fill their hearts with love. Unfortunately, there are some people who don’t deserve happiness during the holidays.
Mason keeps to himself. His best friend, JJ, is the only one he chooses to be close to, plus his job keeps him busy. Excitement isn’t something he needs or wants in his life. One night, that all changes when he’s cornered, and his life is threatened. His saviors? Well, they turn out to be just as dangerous, and the mysteries surrounding them soon flip Mason’s world upside down.
Gabe and his brothers spend their lives making sure those who deserve death get what’s coming to them. The one person they never see coming is Mason. What for them should have been a simple rescue turns into even more chaos than they ever thought possible.
Enter the Saint brothers’ dark and twisted world on a slay ride that will have you on the edge of your seat, swooning for the bad boys, and trying to survive the fall of revenge.
**This was originally a short story that was part of the Christmas Anthology O Deadly Night Vol 1. It has since been expanded to a full-length novel. No Cliffhanger!
How is it possible that someone who can create such dark, twisted, and ethically ambiguous characters so expertly is walking around free and innocent in the world without creating such havoc and mayhem in their wake? Just kidding. Davidson King, though innocent may be a bit of a stretch in certain areas😉😉, obviously is a woman of two minds: 1. the lovely heartwarming person so many know and call friend and 2. the twisted, evil storyteller who loves to put her characters and readers through an emotional rollercoaster.
And HOLY HANNAH BATMAN! what a holiday rollercoaster Slay Ride is.
I say "holiday" because the story takes place as Christmas nears and for me even having just one scene makes a story or film a holiday entertaining good time. Of course, it doesn't hurt that as much as I love the Hallmark-y feel good holiday creations, a dark and twisted holiday tale of mayhem is right up my alley.
I don't do spoilers so I won't touch on particulars but I will say I thought Slay Ride had a little more, well not "off page" violence but the scenes of revenge and vengeance were perhaps not as descriptive as some of King's other works. That's not to say she glossed over anything because there is no doubts as to what is happening/happened to the characters, what drives the Saint brothers to do what they do. Personally, I think there are times when a story is better when certain elements are left to the reader to fill in with their mind's eye, especially when there is a question of ethics, do two wrongs make a right? For this reader, the need for justice and closure is definitely warranted and welcomed.
*Shhhh, don't tell anyone but between us, I would have loved to see certain characters suffer a bit more.*😉😉
As for the mains, Mason and Gabe? What a lovely duo they make. Sometimes we need that one special person to make everything fall into place, to wake up one's heart, to provide the missing puzzle piece. That is exactly what Gabe and Mason are to each other. There is no real "cute meet" for the pair, awkwardly flirtatious perhaps but not really cute and what happens next is most definitely not cute by any stretch of the imagination but it does set everything and everyone on a collision course that changes all involved.
Slay Ride is a dark and dangerous tale of revenge and vengeance but it's also a tale of friendship, family(blood and found), love, and loads of heart. Another great example of pure storytelling that may not be for the feint of heart but I for one am already looking forward to the next installment of the Saint Brothers, hopefully Shep and JJ's journey but whichever brother decides to clue Davidson King in on their path I'll be first in line to read.
Summary:
The Art of Murder #5
Murder: Live and in Technicolor
Working undercover gives FBI Art Crime Team agent Jason West the illusion that he’s safe from his stalker, Dr. Jeremy Kyser. Though film history and preservation are not Jason’s area of expertise, he’s intrigued by the case of a well-connected UCLA film studies professor whose family believes she may have been murdered after discovering a legendary lost 1950s PI film.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the country, BAU Chief Sam Kennedy gets disturbing news: the Roadside Ripper, the serial killer Sam believes murdered his college boyfriend, may not have been working alone.
Original Review March 2023:
Jason West and Sam Kennedy may not be my favorite Josh Lanyon couple, they may not even be my second or third favorite but I do love them! If you are drawn to opposites attract, co-workers, sort-of-friends to lovers, and attraction-found-amongst-trouble tropes you will love West and Kennedy. I say "sort-of-friends" because personally I don't know that I would ever really called their beginnings a friendship but they were definitely more than just co-workers.I know some are disappointed when the explicit heat is off page but not me. Don't get me wrong, I love the explicit stuff but it's not a must, not a make or break scenario for me. Actually when done right, off page heat can be even hotter than the highly detailed acts because it makes the reader's imagination work overtime and I think most of us have pretty healthy imaginations😉😉.
As for The Movie-Town Murders, I found a great blend of on & off page heat to get my brain gears working. I don't think there was ever any real doubt as to how the men felt about each other but I found the pair, especially Sam, to express their emotions more in Movie-Town than the previous entries even though for a majority of the story they aren't even in the same location. A lovely realistic progression of the couples' relationship, both occupationally and emotionally.
Now on to the mystery side of Movie-Town. Okay so you know what's coming: no spoilers and it's a mystery which means everything can be a spoiler so no real plot points touched on here. I enjoyed seeing Jason in an undercover role in a topic that may not be his primary expertise but it definitely falls in line I think in his art crime division, or at least on the outskirts. I will say there is a bit of a cliffhanger in this entry and I know some don't like that but I loved it! Talk about building up my adrenaline rush another notch!
RATING:
The Case of the Grey Assassin by Charlie Cochrane
Summary:Alasdair and Toby Investigations #2
Toby Bowe and Alasdair Hamilton make the perfect partnership onscreen and off. While hiding their relationship tests their acting skills to the utmost, a shared penchant for amateur detection challenges their intellect in a way that making films never can.
When a practical joker appears to be targeting Landseer Studios, they're the obvious men to investigate the affair but life turns tricky when they also get asked to help a film critic who's receiving threatening letters. Suddenly they're involved with the hunt for a serial killer and the case begins to cut too close to home for comfort...
Yet another one that sat on my kindle shelf far longer than expected due to my decreased reading mojo. Better late than never I always say.
The Case of the Grey Assassin is a wonderful follow-up novel in Charlie Cochrane's Alasdair and Toby Investigations series. It is the second entry in the series and as the first, An Act of Deduction, was two novellas I was very excited to see them in their first full-on novel. Alasdair and Toby find two who done its before them, one an on-set serial prankster and two, the Grey Assassin serial killer. It may be hard to think of any serial killer story fall under the cozy genre but the lack of descriptive murderous detail allows it to keep the cozy moniker while still retaining it's level of dangerous mayhem. And of course, the personal side of Alasdair and Toby definitely heightens the fun.
As with the author's Cambridge Fellows Mystery series, the heat between the MCs is mostly off-page but the chemistry between the two is never in doubt. Watching them navigate their love while in the public eye at a time in a country where if caught they could actually find themselves behind bars not just publicly condemned as immoral perverts(history's POV not mine) is equal parts "AWWWW!" and "STOP LOOKING AT EACH OTHER!"😉. As their off-screen detection skills grow that too also increases their time under the microscope. Luckily the studio has their backs but there is still that fear of "will one look of longing too many be too hard to cover up?".
As for the cases, as you may expect from me, you have to read for yourself to discover the ins and outs of each. I can tell you that you will never be bored nor will ever be certain before the reveal, you may think you figured one or the other out but there's always something around the corner that makes you second, third, or even fourth guess yourself. That right there is what makes this mystery brilliant and Charlie Cochrane one of my favorite who-done-it storytellers. There isn't a single character or event that is there to simply stuff the pages, they all have a part to play and that too adds to the brilliance of where this all leads.
Cozy or violent, mystery is mystery to me and The Case of the Grey Assassin is mystery at it's finest, being historical with the perfect blend of romance, drama, and humor brings this mayhem a classic in the making. I've said it before and I'll say it again, the Brits just have a knack that makes them a mastery at mystery and Charlie Cochrane's Alasdair, Toby, and The Case of the Grey Assassin is a prime example. Definitely not to be missed by any mystery lover.
Lessons in Keeping a Dangerous Promise by Charlie Cochrane
Summary:Cambridge Fellows Mysteries #13
Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith like nothing better than being asked to solve mysteries, but when they get commissioned to help someone fulfil a vow he made to a late comrade in arms, matters start to cut too close to home for both of them.
Original Review April 2023:
Not sure why it took me so long to get to Lessons in Keeping a Dangerous Promise as Charlie Cochrane's Cambridge Fellows Mysteries is one of my absolute favorite series and Jonty and Orlando definitely rank high on my Top 10 ships list. I hate to keep saying it but unfortunately my reading mojo still hasn't quite returned after it fell way down during Covid. Slowly but surly it's creeping back and I have quite a list of stories to catch up on, well Dangerous Promise was one of them.
Despite it taking me way longer than normal to read Jonty and Orlando's latest case, I loved it as much as ever. The pair just never get old. For a couple of reasons, this latest case put before them hits home more than some of their others. Having been asked to prove the guilt or innocence of a curate who has been accused of being a little too friendly with a few of the young boys in his parish and when it's a fellow veteran of The Great War who brings the case to them, how can they refuse?
I still miss the contributions by Jonty's parents into their cases but Lavinia has stepped in and does her share of assisting that brings a level of fun spirited moments to the story that only a sister can. Readers of Cambridge Fellows will know that Jonty has a sad history with being messed with in his youth in a similar way the young curate has been accused of, I can't imagine how difficult that could make the case but at the same time I think it gives the pair a sense of needing to know the truth. If guilty than punishment is needed so the boys can heal but if innocent then the stain of accusation must be removed so the man can heal. Which is he? Guilty or innocent? Well, by now you know my answer to that: you have to read to discover for yourself.
Jonty and Orlando are as delightful as ever. The heat has always been mostly off-page but the chemistry and love between the men is undeniable. They have what I like to call a "snark and cuddle" quality about them. "Snarky" may be a bit overstated but their quips with each other makes their cuddle time even more "awwwww"-inducing. In Dangerous Promise this element that makes their relationship so amazing is just as prominent as it was in Lessons in Love when they first met way back in 1905.
For those who have yet to dive into this cozy historical mystery series, don't let the number of entries scare you. Once you start you won't want to stop. I've been reading them as published as there was none of the novellas and still had 2 full lengths to come when I discovered Jonty and Orlando. Each entry is it's own mystery, there are the occasional past case references but the author keeps the reader updated enough so you won't be lost if you hadn't read that particular referenced case. The main ongoing elements is the growing relationship between Jonty and Orlando obviously but also friendships and family, those are factors that are important to me to be read in order but not a necessity. The author keeps a chronological order on her website if you'd like to read them that way. However you choose to read it, you will never be lacking in highly addictie fun that keeps you guessing right up to the reveal.
Summary:
New York City, 1924
Once their paths cross, their worlds will never be the same.
Danny Moore and his crew only meant to rob the hotel suites of rich guests. He wasn’t supposed to find himself in gangster Ricky il Sacchi’s room. And il Sacchi wasn’t supposed to wind up dead. Now Danny has the attention of another notorious gangster.
Carmine Battaglia is intrigued by the Irish thieves who would have made off with a huge score if not for il Sacchi’s death. They’re cunning, careful, and exactly what he needs for his rum running operation. But Danny’s already lost two brothers to the violence between New York’s Irish and Sicilian gangs, and he’s not about to sell his soul to Carmine.
With a gangster’s blood on his hands, Danny needs protection, whether he likes it or not. And that’s to say nothing of the generous pay, which promises to pull him and his crew—not to mention their families—out of destitution.
Working together brings Danny and Carmine to a détente, then to something so intense neither can ignore it. Something nearly enough to make them both forget the brutal tensions between their countrymen.
But the death of Ricky il Sacchi hasn’t been forgotten. And someone is determined to make Danny bleed for it.
The Venetian and the Rum Runner is a gay historical romantic suspense novel set during Prohibition and the Roaring Twenties.
CW: graphic violence, PTSD
Original Review March 2023:
Every St. Patrick's Day I go to my book rec groups on FB asking for Irish-themed stories, maybe it's just Irish characters, set in Ireland at least in part, and a special kudos to any that actually have at least a St. Patrick's Day scene. This year someone rec'd The Venetian and the Rum Runner by LA Witt. So glad they did because . . . YUM! Talk about a story I've been looking for on multiple levels.
1920s✅
Prohibition✅
Mafia✅
Irish characters✅
Mentions of Influenza Epidemic of 1918✅
Post WW1✅
Just so many of my boxes ticked.
I love the whole slow burn trope and this may be one of the slowest slow burns I've read in recent memory and that is not a bad thing. The era and even more so the alpha male label that gangsters are known for wasn't exactly conducive for those who were LGBT. Besides the immoral umbrella too many saw LGBT as falling under, it was also seen as weakness when it came to the mafia. Let me tell you there isn't any man in this story that is weak. There are characters who may see themselves as weak for a variety of reasons but they aren't, nor are they broken. They have just seen too many horrors in the world that leaves them hurting. Danny's friend James is a perfect example. He may be a priest but he also served during WW1 and those nightmares will always follow him. I loved the friendship between James and Danny, they understand each other and accept each other.
As for Danny, as one who has many Irish branches in my family tree I may not understand the battles between the Irish and Italians in 1920s New York-based mafia(my ancestors came through Canada to Wisconsin in the mid-1800s) but I do understand the stubbornness Danny feels in his opinion of Italians. I am definitely stubborn and know that I mainly inherited that trait from the Irish side. I think it's that stubborn certainty to have ill will against all Italians for the actions of a few and still be able to work for them when he is faced with no other options, it shows a lot of courage on his part.
Carmine. What can I say about Carmine? He too has some preconceived notions on the Irish but it's not really deep seated in hatred like Danny's for Italians. His willingness to work with them also shows a level of courage and growth. His relationship with his sister, Giulia, is your standard brother/sister and though he only has her protection in mind with his actions, it is pretty clear early on that Giulia is not shrinking violet.
Put these two men together and you have a chemistry that is instant(although not explored other than inner monologues for quite a while) and never ending. Frankly I loved the progression the men take from boss man/rum runner to oh so much more. I will admit I can see where it could almost be too slowburny for some but not me. Could the author have lessened some of the inner musings? Sure. Would those cuts have made the story better? Maybe. Would I have wanted to see it shorter? Hell No!
I can't imagine it being written any other way than how the author has told it. It's that combination of main characters growing, secondary characters showing their friendship and loyalty, bad guys being super bad, good guys having some bad tendencies but done with a purpose, romance, mystery, heat, suspense, and heart that makes The Venetian and the Rum Runner so bloody brilliant!
As for what draws me to the genre . . .
Maybe it's having grown up about 30 minutes from St. Paul that went a long way to pique my interest in the era. I don't think enough people realize just how many gangsters of that era came through the area. You can still find the tommy gun bullet holes in the Wabasha Caves nearly 100 years later. Maybe it's the glamour side that Hollywood has always portrayed that decade to be. Obviously it's not all glamour and Hollywood has never had a problem with fact-stretching but as a little girl I can't deny that film genre went a long way to forming my interest and as I got older and the realities of the time became more clear, my interest was already embedded.
I've read a few stories that touched on my earlier checklist and loved them all, there's just not enough in the LGBTQ+ historical mafia genre to feed my hunger. Or perhaps there are and I'm just not looking in the right place. Whatever the answer is to that, at least this LA Witt novel crossed my reading journey and I'm beyond thankful for that.
Whether you are a fan of historical 1920s prohibition era mafia stories or not, I still highly recommend giving The Venetian and the Rum Runner a chance. It is most certainly not a quick read but it is an entertaining one that kept me hooked all the way through and left me sad when I reached the last page. I've already purchased the audiobook and look forward to many re-visits to come.
Slay Ride by Davidson King
MASON
“The world is a dangerous place, not because of those who do evil, but because of those who look on and do nothing.” ~ Albert Einstein
CHAPTER ONE
“You’re coming out tonight. Please say you are,” JJ, my best friend in all the world, pouted as he asked. Was I so predictable that he knew I wanted to say no before he finished his sentence?
“I’m closing tonight.” I probably could convince my manager at Books and Bistro to let me go early. She’d be happy to know I had a social life, but I was not a people person, and being around strangers was a special kind of torture. They were always a disappointment, super judgmental, and most of them simply wanted something from you. JJ was the exception.
After my parents died in a house fire when I was ten, JJ’s parents took me in. I had no other family, so his became mine. JJ knew me better than anyone.
“Okay, so you’ll be a little late. It’s a Christmas party at Scheherazade, invitation only, and I snagged us some. Please, Mason?”
With a heavy sigh, I nodded. “Okay, I can meet you in front of the club at eleven.”
JJ hugged me so tightly, I swore my bones cracked. I wasn’t a big guy. At five foot four, I weighed one hundred and twenty pounds. I loved food but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t bulk up, so I stopped working on it. Add in my dull brown eyes, and I really wasn’t anything to write home about. I had good hair, though—a perfect auburn color.
I loved my job at Books and Bistro and was on the fast track to becoming a manager. I just knew it. What more did a person need besides books, food, coffee, and comfy couches to read on? Nothing.
“Okay, love you, gotta run.” JJ rushed out of my apartment, likely late for his job. He had gotten a position at some law firm and was loving it. When he’d gone off to college, I’d decided not to. I’d been working at Books and Bistro ever since I graduated high school.
“See you later,” I shouted to the now-empty space.
My place was perfect for me, and honestly, I didn’t actually have to work. My parents had left me a life insurance policy, and my grandparents had set up a trust fund for me as well. I gave JJ’s parents the entire insurance settlement after my folks died, even though they said they didn’t want it. It was the least I could do.
I’d bought an apartment outright. It overlooked the river on one end and the city on the other. I had three bedrooms, a kitchen, and a comfy living room, so in truth, it was all I needed.
Yeah, I hated people, but I hated being lonely just as much…I was a conundrum, no question about it. Books and Bistro was like a second home for me—it filled my loneliness tank and kept my head above water.
My life was pretty good, and I couldn’t complain too much about it.
As soon as JJ and I entered Scheherazade, I deflated. I had never set foot inside the exclusive place, but what had kept my curiosity piqued was the expectation that the interior based its name on its origin. It did not. They clearly only liked the name Scheherazade and not the story behind the character.
“I know that look,” JJ shouted over the stupidly loud music.
“What look?”
He rolled his eyes. “You thought this club would be like the book One Thousand and One Nights, didn’t you?”
He did know me so well. “It’s just that I’d hoped maybe there’d be some Persian design, at least. But this place is no different than Club Rain or that other one that was a carbon copy of every other place you’ve dragged me to.”
“You’re being a bah humbug!” JJ playfully shoved my shoulder.
“There aren’t even any Christmas lights up. How is this a Christmas party?” He waved me over to follow him to the bar. The bartender wore a Santa hat, and JJ gave me a pointed look. “See?”
“Wow, you sure showed me,” I deadpanned.
JJ ignored me and ordered us each a holiday drink, and I scanned the entire area. There were so many bodies swaying, rubbing. I mean, was it dancing or sex?
“Drink.” He shoved a glass in my face. It was red, and the straw was designed to look like a candy cane.
I sipped the fruity and slightly minty drink and continued people-watching.
“Let’s dance.” JJ grabbed my arm, but I quickly pulled away.
“Absolutely not. I can barely walk without falling on my face. Why would you want me to go out there and murder people with my flailing limbs?”
“Dra. Mat. Ic!” He chugged his drink and placed the empty glass on the bar. “I’m dancing. Watch me and make sure no creeper tries to manhandle me.”
“You’d like it,” I joked.
I watched as the crowd pulled JJ in until he was part of the gyrating machine that embodied the entire club.
I could people-watch all day. No, I wasn’t a fan of mankind, but I loved coming up with stories in my head about them. I saw a woman between two men. Desperate to find her one true love, she willingly subjected herself to depravity to find him.
A man kissed another man near the DJ booth. They were aggressive in their touching, and I could picture them in a few hours, tumbling onto a bed, wrapped in each other and silk sheets. Making promises they’d surely end up breaking just so they could reach their climax.
“Jack and coke,” a deep, smooth voice beside me said, pulling me away from my internal storytelling.
Well. Damn. He was tall and built without being mountainous. He had a sweep going on in the front of his perfectly styled brown hair. Did I mention he was wearing all leather?
I was staring, and maybe sniffing, because holy hell, he smelled good.
His eyes met mine, and while lust pooled in my gut, fear began to settle in too. His eyes were dark, fathomless. As if they’d never seen light and vowed never to let it in. The furrow in his brow and his permafrown were quite off-putting. My brain was yelling at me to look away, but his eyes were like tractor beams, hypnotizing me with their intensity.
“What are you drinking?”
He was talking to me. Speak words, Mason.
“Uh, I’m not sure.”
He cocked his head. “You’re drinking something, and you have no idea what it is?”
I shrugged. “My friend bought it. I think it’s some holiday special.”
He turned to the bartender when his drink was handed to him. “Another holiday whatever that is, for this guy too.”
He bought me a drink? “Thanks. I’m Mason.” Yay for words.
“Gabe.” He sat on the stool, drink in hand, and scanned the room. While I never knew what I was looking for, Gabe seemed to be searching for something or someone in particular.
“Your Fruity Festivus,” the bartender said, and Gabe raised his brows.
“Thanks for humiliating me.” I narrowed my eyes at the giver of alcohol and took my drink. The bartender didn’t give a shit about embarrassing me.
“Is it good?” Gabe asked.
“Want to try it?” I held it under his nose, and he sniffed.
“Nah, I’m fine.”
Gabe returned to his searching, and I returned to my internal storytelling.
“Motherfucker.” The anger and disdain in Gabe’s tone had me leaning away from him. He jumped off the stool and turned to me. “I gotta talk to someone. I was thinking we’d maybe fuck later?”
Seriously? “Did you just ask me for a fuck? With no finesse at all?”
He peered over his shoulder at me. “No time to waste, am I right? So, yeah, I’ll be back in like five minutes.”
He didn’t give me a chance to answer. He was working his way through the dance floor toward some guy. As soon as he was on him, I noticed four others joined Gabe. Who the hell was this man?
The Movie-Town Murders by Josh Lanyon
The Skydome Lounge was a revolving restaurant and bar on the top floor of the North Tower of the DoubleTree Hilton in Crystal City. The muted George Jetson meets George Washington decor was uninspired, but no one came for the beige ambiance or even the Tomahawk Ribeye. It took less than forty-five minutes for the glass dome to complete a full 360° rotation, and when the weather was clear, like today, the views of the Pentagon, DC, and the Potomac were phenomenal.
Also, the Skydome’s bartenders understood the art of the free pour.
Jason scanned the mostly empty room and spotted Sam seated at a table beside the wall of windows. His dark suit jacket was draped on the back of the chair, and he was working on his laptop. For a moment Jason let himself enjoy the sight of Sam being Sam: his hard not-quite-handsome profile absorbed in whatever he was reading, white shirtsleeves rolled to reveal tanned and muscular forearms, one well-shod foot moving in absent, restless rhythm.
At a nearby table, two attractive, well-dressed women whispered to each other and tittered as they sized Sam up.
Otherwise, the restaurant was deserted. A DJ station sat vacant in the middle of the room, surrounded by a small parquet dance floor that would barely accommodate three couples. Four large televisions tuned to MSNBC hung from the ceiling, reporting on the continued lack of cooperation from pretty much everyone for pretty much everything.
As Jason approached, Sam glanced up. His severe expression softened, though in order to recognize that, you’d have to know what to look for. Sam took off his gold-wire glasses and pushed down the lid of his laptop.
Jason said, “Hey.” He was still disconcerted—though happy, no question—to find Sam waiting for him in his hotel.
“Hi.” Sam studied him. “Okay?”
Jason nodded, pulled out the chair across from Sam, and sat down. “Yep. Just…surprised.”
About everything. The truth was, he felt shaken in the aftermath of all that adrenaline. The way you did after any close call. He’d been braced for the worst. He was still trying to absorb that the worst hadn’t come to pass.
Sam nodded to the bartender, who crossed the little dance floor to them. “What are you drinking?” Sam asked Jason.
“Whatever’s on tap,” Jason told the bartender.
She nodded. Glanced at the empty rocks glass next to Sam’s elbow. “Another?”
Sam nodded. As the bartender walked away, he said to Jason, “What happened?”
Jason said cautiously, “Kapszukiewicz said you phoned her?”
“We talked on Friday. She hadn’t come to a decision yet.”
Jason offered Sam a crooked smile. “Then you’ll appreciate the irony. Per Kapszukiewicz, both my grandfather and Roy Thompson are deceased and therefore have—had—no active ongoing ‘interest’ in the case.”
Sam’s brow furrowed as he processed.
“Had Thompson still been alive and facing prosecution, then the possibility that my grandfather allegedly ordered him to steal artifacts could have created conflict on my part, since my grandfather could, again allegedly, have been materially involved in the conduct subject to my investigation.”
Jason could see the moment it clicked. Sam’s eyes—the same uncompromising blue of the FBI seal—flickered. His mouth curved wryly. “Your investigation was into ownership of the art, not whether Thompson was guilty of theft.”
“Yes. Right.” Jason expelled a long breath. “Whether my grandfather ordered Thompson to take the art and other items—which he’d never have done—or Thompson ‘liberated’ those things on his own, the bottom line is the treasure was still stolen.”
Sam looked thoughtful. “How the art was acquired wouldn’t affect the outcome of the investigation.”
Jason laughed, wiped his eyes because this was still painful. “Right. In a nutshell. Which is what I must have been. Nuts. What concerns Kapszukiewicz isn’t the ethical conflict. It’s that I believed there was an ethical conflict—and acted accordingly.”
Sam said, “It’s always the cover-up, never the crime.” He added, “Not that you committed or would commit any crime.”
Jason appreciated that Sam felt that way now. He hadn’t seemed to feel that way three days ago.”
“Right. I just…short-circuited. I don’t know why.”
“I do,” Sam was curt. “You do too. So does Kapszukiewicz.” Sam had made no bones about the fact he believed Jason was suffering from nervous exhaustion. He’d probably shared that belief with Kapszukiewicz. Which Jason did not appreciate, but, given recent events, could hardly argue with.
Sam must have been reviewing his own actions and reactions because he added, “This is why speaking to an ethics official ahead of time would be helpful.”
“Yes. Agreed.”
Sam had viewed Jason’s actions as negatively as Jason had. It was never going to be funny, but it was a lesson to both of them. About a number of things.
Jason flicked him a rueful look. “So when you phoned Kapszukiewicz on Friday, that was before you left Montana?”
Sam’s pale brows rose in polite inquiry.
“Before you arrived in LA. Before we talked.” The hours during which Jason had believed their relationship truly was over. And, he would have bet, the hours during which Sam had also believed their relationship was at an end. Because he had ended it.
Or at least that had been Jason’s takeaway because then, like now, Sam had said nothing.
And continued to say nothing.
“Thank you.” Jason steadied his voice. “I mean it. You didn’t have to do that. Especially given your feelings about…everything.”
“I shared my thoughts with Kapszukiewicz. But I can’t tell another unit chief how to handle their team. I wouldn’t if I could.”
“No, I know.” And yet, per Kapszukiewicz, Sam had, in his own way, interceded on Jason’s behalf. That alone had shaken Jason. It was like discovering the sun could occasionally, when it chose, rise in the west and set in the east.
They had traveled a very long distance since that final confrontation in Sam’s temporary office at the Bozwin RA. A distance that had nothing to do with the thousand-plus miles between Montana and California. In fact, most of the journey had happened over the weekend in Jason’s little bungalow on Carroll Canal.
“Personal feelings aside, you’re a good agent, West. You’re ACT’s superstar. I think firing you would be a huge miscalculation. For a lot of reasons.” Jason opened his mouth, but Sam added, “And as far as my personal feelings?” He gave a funny smile. “I think you know there’s not much I wouldn’t do for you.”
Jason really didn’t want to get caught crying in his beer—especially when the beer had yet to arrive. He said briskly, “George phoned too, also asking for clemency.” He was trying to joke, but mild-mannered Supervisory Special Agent George Potts’ attempt to save him meant nearly as much as Sam’s.
The bartender arrived then with their drinks. It seemed Sam was running a tab. So was he not heading out to Quantico after all?
Jason picked up his frosted beer mug. Sam lightly knocked the heel of his glass to Jason’s. “Welcome back, West.”
Jason dipped his head in acknowledgment—the weirdest things choked him up lately. “Geronimo.” He took a long swallow of beer.
“Anyway, like I said, you’re a valuable asset.” Sam sipped his drink. Yet when his gaze met Jason’s there was a look that got to Jason in some hard to explain way. Not sympathy exactly, but a sort of utter and complete understanding that gave Jason a peculiar feeling in his belly, left him feeling warm and weak.
Maybe—well, no maybe about it—it wasn’t fair or even accurate, but he’d always believed there were conditions attached to Sam’s…affection for him. Now they seemed to have crossed into a no man’s land of awareness and acceptance. He had no idea what their future held, but he felt confident of Sam’s feelings in a way he never really, fully had before.
Jason sipped his beer, watching a plane flying into Regan International. In a few hours he’d be flying out himself. But he was not going to look beyond this minute, this stolen time with Sam. God only knew when they’d be in the same town at the same time again.
Suddenly, he remembered something from the interview in Kapszukiewicz’s office and made a sound of amusement.
“What?” Sam asked.
“I almost forgot. Kapszukiewicz said J.J. phoned and told her he objected to having three different partners during his field training period and would prefer that I remain at the LA field office.”
Sam choked on his whisky sour. “Jesus Christ.” He hastily wiped his chin.
Jason laughed.
They had a couple more drinks, talked about nothing much. Jason’s thoughts kept pinging back to the meeting with Kapszukiewicz, reliving every excruciating minute. He was torn between abject relief he still had a career, and mortification that he had come so close to losing it.
By the time five o’clock rolled around, the bar was filling up, the noise level rising accordingly.
Sam raised his brows in inquiry. “Did you want to order dinner or…?”
Jason’s heart lifted. That was one question answered. Sam was staying over. He smiled. “Or. Definitely or.”
Sam’s mouth quirked. He pushed his chair back.
The Case of the Grey Assassin by Charlie Cochrane
London, 1952
“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship.” Alasdair Hamilton took Fiona Marsden’s dainty left hand in his, while in his right he held the wedding ring, turning it to catch the light.
Fiona, eyes alive with demure expectation, smiled with exactly the right amount of promise of passion to come.
“With all my worldly—”
“Alasdair!” Alexander Rattigan’s voice rang out across the studio floor. How vexatious. Alasdair couldn’t remember the last time a director had stopped him in mid-scene. He, Toby Bowe and Fiona—the stellar trio whose performances filled Landseer Pictures’ coffers—prided themselves on the paucity of takes they required to get a scene safely in the can. The Royal Romance was proving no exception to the rule.
“Sorry to interrupt you both but there’s a buzzing coming from somewhere. You may not be picking it up but the microphones will. Irrespective of that, it’s extremely annoying.” Alexander turned to his assistant, an efficient young man who was becoming invaluable on the set.
“Jack, will you see if you can find out where that infernal row is emanating from and put a stop to it? The rest of you can take a break while we sort this out.”
“Relief at last,” Toby said, rolling his shoulders and taking off his plumed, royal blue tricorn hat. “I know this is a royal wedding scene but I feel like the queen of the May.”
“How do you think I feel?” Fiona said, fanning herself with an ivory-coloured prayer book. “I’ve got six petticoats on under here. This is what it must be like to be a mille feuille. Do you think anyone—even royalty—really wore things like this in the eighteenth century? It would have driven me mad.”
“I doubt anybody wore anything resembling what the wardrobe department turns out. In any era or setting.” Alasdair, perspiring under the lights, imitated Fiona’s fanning motion with his hat, much to the consternation of his dresser, who came haring up and took it from him. “Alexander, please can we take a small break? My forehead’s dripping and that noise is becoming a distinct nuisance.”
“Of course. Back to your dressing rooms where you have them, please and we’ll aim to resume in twenty minutes. By which time the buzz will have—aha!” To everyone’s relief the noise, which had been steadily increasing in decibels, suddenly ceased.
The four actors under the lights, which included one venerable old soul portraying the archbishop who was conducting the ceremony, headed for the comfort of their dressing rooms, although Alasdair deliberately took his time. He for one wanted to know what had caused the wretched noise and curiosity took precedence over relief for the moment. Not least because he was still annoyed at being interrupted when he’d been giving one of his best performances. He was unlikely to be taking the wedding vows himself at any point and he’d secretly imagined he was saying the words to Toby, which was producing an air of authenticity that would stand out on the screen. The audiences would believe that he was either a brilliant actor or he harboured a secret passion for Fiona which for some reason would never be requited, probably because she was secretly engaged to one of the dashing gentlemen on whose arm she was often draped.
If the adoring public knew that Fiona was quietly heading for marriage to an orthopaedic surgeon, whereas Toby and Alasdair had eyes for nobody but each other, they’d have been—respectively—disappointed and horrified. Except in the case of the more understanding females and the gents who occasionally sent the two male stars anonymous but passionate missives.
In terms of maintaining their image, both professionally and personally, Alasdair hoped to be able to repeat the same quality of performance when the scene came to be shot again.
“Jack, well done.” Alexander’s words snapped Alasdair out of the thoughts he’d been lost in. The director’s assistant had reappeared, gingerly carrying something. “What was making that din?”
“This.” Jack held out a small, slightly battered metal object. “It appears to be a battery-operated device whose sole purpose is to produce a buzz. An increasingly loud buzz, at that. By the time I found it, the thing was almost unbearable to get close to.”
“Where was it? Alasdair asked.
“Wedged under a chair. Easy to locate, given the racket.” Jack shook his head. “I couldn’t work out how to turn it off, so I found a hammer and smashed the wretched machine to pieces.”
Alexander took the device, inspected it, then proffered it to Alasdair.
“I won’t touch it, thank you, as I’m in costume. There could be oil or battery acid seeping out and wardrobe would have my guts for garters if I made a mess of what I’m wearing. It’s a shame you had to smash it, Jack, although I can appreciate you may have had little choice.”
“A shame?” Jack’s ironic inflection spoke volumes. An actor’s voice in the making. Rumour had it that he’d had a chance to play bit parts at Lion Studios but had turned it down because his uncle worked there, and Jack wanted to carve his own path. “Why is that?”
“Because you might have destroyed the evidence.” Alasdair smiled, as the director and Toby—who’d discarded the most elaborate parts of his costume and had returned to see the fun no doubt—made understanding noises. “It’s my suspicious mind, of course. This device has been set deliberately either as a stupid prank or as something worse.”
“Worse?” Alexander asked, before taking a horrified glance at what Jack was holding. “You don’t think that was actually a bomb, do you?”
“Heavens!” The item in question plummeted to the ground as Jack discarded it. “We should all get out of here.”
“There’s no need, I’d have thought.” One of the cameramen coolly bent down to peer at the battered metal, then looked over his shoulder. “Eric? What do you think?”
Eric, the genius in charge of all the electrics on set, a man regarded by most as the master of many arcane arts, strolled over, then went down on his haunches to get a better view. “Harmless, I’d have said, Douglas. In my opinion that’s no explosive device.”
Douglas the cameraman nodded. “Exactly. Can’t see anything to go off bang, for a start.”
Alexander drew his handkerchief over his perspiring brow. “Thank God for that.”
“Well done, chaps,” Toby said. “Take this pair’s word for it, Jack. Douglas and Eric both dealt with unexploded ordnance during the war so they should know. I’d be fascinated to hear their expert opinions.”
Douglas eased himself onto the floor—surprisingly well for a man who’d lost a limb in the performance of his duty—to inspect the object more closely. “It has a timer and what appears to be a small loudspeaker, so on first appearances it’s nothing other than already surmised. Something designed to produce the maximum of noise at a given time.” He glanced up at Alasdair. “Was a bomb what you meant by worse, or did you have something else in mind?”
“The latter. I wondered if somebody, rather than playing a stupid joke, was deliberately trying to interrupt our filming schedule. A serious intention rather than a comical one.” Alasdair, suddenly aware that he must look ridiculous, dressed in satin and lace, and ruffled up to the nines, while discoursing seriously on potential disruption, shot Toby a pleading glance to come to his aid.
His lover obliged. “That’s a good point. Are you thinking this may be an attempt to get filming stopped? Such sabotage happens, although I’ve not personally come across it on a film set. There’s always a first time for everything, though.”
Alexander, evidently unnerved at such a prospect, blanched. “Then we must be on our guard. Jack, can you organise a small party to check for any similarly vexatious devices, while the cast carry on with their break? I’d like to recommence filming in fifteen minutes as planned.”
Back in his dressing room and with as much of his costume off as was worth discarding for the short break, Alasdair pondered over the incident which had just taken place. He’d need to talk this over with Toby as soon as an opportunity presented itself. As though summoned by those thoughts, a knock on the door, a head poking around it and a bright, “Alasdair!” heralded the arrival of his co-star.
“Do we—you—really think somebody is trying to throw a spanner in the Landseer works?” Toby asked, as he flung himself into a chair.
Alasdair daintily shrugged, a movement he was attempting to perfect for a scene they’d be filming the next day, where he was to eschew his father’s choice of bride for him. He wanted to convey a lack of mental clarity with a hint of polite disagreement.
“Is that the shrug for tomorrow? It’s coming on. I look forward to seeing that in the rushes.” Toby chuckled. “So is your answer to my question I don’t know?”
“It’s more I wouldn’t like to commit myself. Too easy to read too much into things. Or hope to read too much into them, if that makes sense.”
“It does indeed. Exactly the kind of intrigue that’s most gratifying. Slender evidence so far that it’s anything other than a stupid joke, though. Some young lad who thinks he’ll ‘ave a bit of a lark.” The cockney accent was coming on, although Toby would likely not need it on screen, unless the next Holmes and Watson film saw the good doctor going undercover in the East End. Given the way that the scriptwriters played fast and loose with Conan Doyle’s stories, anything was possible.
“True. This device certainly smacks of the overactive schoolboy imagination.” Which was why Alasdair had told his overactive imagination to exercise a note of caution. They’d been fortunate—if one might use the term—so far, to have had puzzles thrust upon them to solve. Buried treasure, a missing secretary, a murdered fellow actor: all these unexpectedly had occupied their minds previously and the thrill of the investigational chase had proved intoxicating. The fact they portrayed Holmes and Watson on the screen and had the chance to play the same roles off it must have been unique in the history of amateur detection. “Still, it’s a shame the thing got wrecked.”
“You’re not thinking that part is suspicious?” Toby glanced over his shoulder, as if to check whether they could be overheard. He lowered his voice. “Jack being involved in planting the device and hence destroying the thing to hide any evidence?”
“I confess it crossed my mind. He might have known there was an excellent chance he’d be asked to go and deal with the device once it started to make a din and could have legitimately volunteered in the event of not being asked. Talking of legitimate, whoever planted the buzzer must have had a reason to be on the premises. Landseer security is pretty efficient at keeping unwanted visitors off the set.”
“As you said previously, true. Although there is a small army of folk who have proper reason to be here, not just the actors and crew. Cleaners, scene painters, those who work in the offices. They’d all have opportunity.”
Toby tipped his head back in the direction of the set. “As for Jack, while I appreciate your reasoning, it would be an entirely natural response to wallop the thing. Were I the one sent to deal with it and had found it screaming its mechanical heart out, retaining any evidence would hardly be uppermost in my mind. That noise was annoying enough at a distance, so imagine what it must have been like close at hand. It would have driven anyone out of the realms of common sense and into a blind fury in which there was only one priority. Stopping the damn buzzing.”
Alasdair essayed the extravagant sigh he was also perfecting for the upcoming scene. “You’re probably right. Although bear with me when I point out that if this does turn out to be more than a practical joke, and fingerprints are taken, Jack’s will be on there. You can’t tell when a thing was handled, only by whom and in what order.”
“I’ll grant you that, Sherlock.” Toby stretched. “Better go and get back into my finery. If this annoyance is part of a bigger campaign of disruption, it’ll soon become apparent.”
“Indeed.” And while Alasdair would be pleased if it did—so long as he and Toby were allowed to poke their noses into the investigating of the situation—he felt treasonous for wishing so. While his primary loyalty was to Toby, his second was to Landseer and to those fans of the golden trio who placed their bums on seats time and again to watch their films, keeping him in a lifestyle many could never even aspire to. Any attack on Landseer would be an attack on him.
Lessons in Keeping a Dangerous Promise by Charlie Cochrane
Jonty Stewart looked through the window of his study at St Bride’s college, transfixed by the scene playing out in the court below. Dr Panesar—polymath, pioneer aviator and who knew what else—was trying to catch a wounded pigeon, a pigeon which didn’t appear to want to be caught.
“That’s quite a kerfuffle.”
The voice sounding over his shoulder was so familiar, Jonty barely registered surprise at its owner’s arrival in his room. Anyway, he’d seen Orlando Coppersmith heading across the court and guessed he would be arriving soon.
“Another victim of Hotspur, do you think? Or Mrs Hotspur?”
“Quite likely. They’re doing a marvellous job of keeping the flying vermin under control.” Orlando patted Jonty’s shoulder while they both observed their colleague’s progress. St Bride’s took a great deal of pride in the pair of peregrine falcons which had deigned to nest on the chapel tower and which dived down on their prey at a terrifying rate.
The college took an equal pride in its pair of amateur sleuths, who’d solved mysteries and murders ancient and modern, including a commission from royalty.
“Not far to look for a culprit in the case of the plucked pigeon.” Jonty cuffed his lover’s arm. “It feels a long time since we had a proper case, though. I can’t believe the world has turned virtuous all of a sudden.”
“I will be extremely vexed if it had.” Orlando snorted. “I’m not asking for a murder—it makes me feel very guilty when I’ve been yearning for one and it subsequently lands in our laps, as it were—but a code to unravel or a crime from long ago would be most gratifying.”
Jonty had heard that refrain many a time, either here in college or by their own fireside. While Orlando always had his mathematics and the challenge of trying to get the principles of same into the noddles of his students, it didn’t provide quite the intellectual stimulus of a real-life mystery. “Well, given the way the universe seems to work—or the machinations of Mama sitting on her heavenly cloud forcing the angels to organise a case for you or else she’ll report them for having grubby halos—no doubt some perplexing mystery will soon fall into our laps. A nice, tricky one, with no corpses or other distressing quantities.
The Venetian and the Rum Runner by LA Witt
Chapter 1
Manhattan
January 2nd, 1924
At quarter to ten the second night after New Year’s, having arrived at the address on the card he’d been given, Danny Moore found himself standing in the falling snow outside a butcher shop.
It was still open despite the late hour. He supposed that wasn’t a surprise, especially as a young couple sauntered in through the front door in attire no one wore to visit the butcher. Clearly, then, this was not unlike the florist shop that acted as a benign and perfectly legal front for the speakeasy Danny frequented. Given that the man he was here to see was a powerful bootlegger, a front seemed more likely than Carmine Battaglia moonlighting in the meat business, particularly the business of staying open late to sell meat to customers in their finest evening wear.
Danny cast a wary glance around the dark and mostly deserted street, then walked inside. The butcher shop itself was nothing remarkable. Sausages and cuts of everything imaginable hung in the windows or were displayed in a glass case beside a large scale and a cash register. On the wall, prices were listed, but Danny didn’t bother to read them. He was not, after all, here to buy meat.
The young couple was gone, having likely been escorted through a secret door into the speakeasy beyond. A middle-aged Italian woman watched him through wire-rimmed spectacles.
Clearing his throat, Danny showed her the card. “I’m here to see—”
“You got an appointment?” The question was terse.
“I do, yes. At ten o’clock. With, um… With Mr. Carpenter.”
She gave a curt nod, turned away, picked up the telephone, and dialed. After a moment, she said, “Mr. Carpenter’s ten o’clock appointment is here.” She hung up and turned to him. “Wait right here.”
Danny waited. Another couple came through the door, the woman waving a long cigarette holder between her fingers as she and her companion laughed at something one of them must have said outside. She was blond, dressed in sparkling silver and green beneath a snow-dusted overcoat, and both her hair and skirt were as short as was fashionable these days. Her companion was in a smart suit and shined shoes. Clearly here to buy meat.
The man murmured something to the woman behind the counter, and the woman again picked up the telephone, this time saying something Danny didn’t hear. A moment later, an unseen door in the back opened, and the butcher stepped out, wiping his hands on his dingy white apron. With a sharp nod, he beckoned for the couple to come with him, and they followed without hesitation.
Outside, a pair of policemen strolled by. One cast a disinterested look through the windows, put his cigarette to his lips, and kept right on walking into the frigid night. They had to know what went on in here. It was hardly a secret what it meant when a regular business had patrons dressed for a night out coming in through the front door at this hour. Either the policemen didn’t care or they didn’t bother because there were dozens of places like this nearby. More likely, they didn’t see anything because a few crisp bills in their pockets said there was nothing to see.
“You here for Mr. Carpenter?” The voice pulled Danny’s attention from the vacant sidewalk where the police had been patrolling, and he turned to see a hulking Italian man in a suit glaring at him from behind the counter.
Danny cleared his throat. “I am, yes.”
A sharp gesture summoned him into the back of the butcher shop. Danny hesitated—whether or not it was a front for a speakeasy, this was a legitimate butcher shop, and he wasn’t sure he liked venturing away from the windows into a place with knives and meat hooks. Not with an Italian wise guy, and especially not after what had happened on New Year’s Eve.
The Italian glared at him. “You coming?”
Well, if he didn’t, then four of his friends would likely land in the workhouse soon. Or worse.
So, swallowing his nerves, Danny followed the man into a larger room in the back. Here, the butcher was methodically cleaving apart some creature’s hindquarters, and he eyed Danny and the Italian with no expression on his face.
At the other side of the room was a door. Danny and the Italian stepped through it, and Danny jumped when it banged shut behind him, sealing them into a narrow, dark stairway that was as cold as the January night outside. They walked silently down the stairs, and Danny tried not to liken this to descending into the pits of hell for a meeting with the Devil himself.
When they reached the bottom, the Italian faced him and held up a canvas bag.
“Put this on,” he ordered.
“Put it…” Danny eyed the bag, then the wise guy. “Why?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You want to meet Mr. Carpenter or not?”
Well, no, now that he’d asked, but Danny didn’t have a lot of choice here. And he supposed now that he’d been into the tunnel behind the butcher shop, there was no turning back. He’d already seen too much.
Muttering a few choice words in Irish, Danny pulled the bag over his own head, and he tried not to let his mind linger on what exactly he was smelling. Something sour and decayed. Thinking any deeper than that, he’d probably throw up inside the bag. In fact, maybe that was what—
“This way.” The Italian took his arm, and what could Danny do but follow him?
They walked for what felt like miles. Maybe that was just his nerves, or maybe time seemed to be crawling by because of the horrid stench so close to his face. All he knew was he’d long since lost track of the turns and switchbacks, and that with every set of stairs—even those going up—he was sure he was getting closer to literal hell.
Finally, he was ordered to halt. Something squeaked, and he thought he heard a door open, but he wasn’t told to move, so he stood there stupidly and waited for something to happen.
The Italian’s gruff voice made him jump: “Your ten o’clock is here, boss.”
The response came in a smoother voice that made Danny’s already racing heart beat faster: “Bring him in.”
Danny was shoved unceremoniously forward, and he just managed to keep himself from falling. When he’d righted himself, the bag was yanked off his head.
He blinked a few times—the room was dimly lit by a few bare bulbs strung around where crown molding would have been in a classier place, but it was still bright for a man who’d been in darkness for the last… the last however long he’d been hooded.
A heavy metal door slammed shut behind him, and a lock clanged into place. It sounded like the kind of door they used for bank vaults, and that didn’t settle Danny’s nerves at all. There was a reason he and his crew had never bothered trying to rob banks.
As his eyes adjusted, he shivered and took in his surroundings. Aside from being cold, the room was rough, its floor made of wood but its walls out of ragged concrete. A few pipes went across the ceiling and along one wall, but otherwise it looked like an office—a desk with a couple of chairs and a telephone. Several ledgers and pens. It wasn’t even as big as the modest parlor in Danny’s Broome Street tenement apartment, and the low ceiling and dim light made it feel even more cramped and tight.
Or perhaps that was because of the locked door and the man gazing back at him from behind the broad desk.
He was Italian in the usual expensive suit, and he was plainly a gangster. As easy to recognize as Ricky il Sacchi. The way he carried himself, even while sitting down. The way he looked at Danny like he owned everything in this room including him. The pinstriped slate gray suit and the fedora on the desk. And who else but gangsters held meetings in dark basements with men summoned by threats? He couldn’t have been anyone other than a gangster, and Danny suspected this “Mr. Carpenter” was, in fact, Carmine Battaglia.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“It ain’t ‘kid,’” Danny growled, hoping his nerves didn’t betray him.
A dark eyebrow arched.
Danny gulped. “Daniel. My name is Daniel Moore.”
To his surprise the Italian got up and came around the desk. He was slightly shorter than Danny—an inch at most—and he looked Danny right in the eye as he extended a hand. “Carmine Battaglia.”
Unsure what else to do, Danny shook Battaglia’s hand.
So this was him. Carmine Battaglia. The gangster who’d demanded Danny’s presence and threatened to send four of his friends to the workhouse if he didn’t show.
And maybe if Danny hadn’t been so uneasy with this whole situation, he’d have spent a little more time focusing on those full lips and near-black eyes. Or the way the bare electric bulbs cast harsh shadows on sharp, olive-skinned features.
He’s one of them, Danny fiercely reminded himself. Stop staring and find a way out of here.
“Well? You wanted to see me.” Danny spread his arms. “I’m here.”
“Yes, you are.” Battaglia leaned casually against his desk, head tilted his head as he studied Danny intently. “I understand you’re in charge of a group of thieves who broke into some suites at the Plaza Hotel on New Year’s Eve.”
Danny swallowed, not sure how to proceed.
An odd smile formed on Battaglia’s lips. “I’m not the police, Daniel. I’m—”
“You’re a gangster.” The words came out with more venom than perhaps was wise. “Just tell me what you want so you won’t send my friends to the workhouse.”
Battaglia shook his head, chuckling softly. “I’m not interested in sending you or your friends to the workhouse.”
“But you said… If I didn’t come…”
“And you did come.” Battaglia shrugged. “You held up your end of the deal, and now I’ll hold up mine.”
It wasn’t that simple. It couldn’t be. Nothing ever was with gangsters involved.
“So what is it you want?”
“What I want is to put you and your crew to work.”
Danny blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I want to put—”
“Yeah, I heard that part.” Danny stared at him in disbelief. “You want us to come work for you. For gangsters. For Sicilian gangsters.”
Battaglia inclined his head. “You would hardly be the first Irishmen on my payroll.”
Setting his jaw, Danny glared at him. “Your kind put two of my brothers in the ground. I’d sooner work at Tammany Hall than with the likes of you.”
Battaglia’s expression hardened just slightly, but his voice stayed calm. “And you don’t think plenty of my kind are in the ground thanks to Irishmen?”
“With any luck, they’re in hell.”
The gangster’s eyebrow rose slowly.
Danny’s heart went wild. This was dangerous. So dangerous. He may as well have spat in the man’s face and cursed his mother.
Perhaps not the wisest thing to do when he was in a locked underground office with a powerful gangster and not the faintest clue how to get back to street level.
But he didn’t take it back.
Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.
When she's not writing you can find her blogging away on Diverse Reader, her review and promotional site. She managed to wrangle herself a husband who matched her crazy and they hatched three wonderful children.
If you were to ask her what gave her the courage to finally publish, she'd tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when you're afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.
Bestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Josh is married and they live in Southern California.Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Charlie Cochrane
As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.
Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.
Happily married, with a house full of daughters, Charlie tries to juggle writing with the rest of a busy life. She loves reading, theatre, good food and watching sport. Her ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching rugby and a church service in the evening.
L.A. Witt and her husband have been exiled from Spain and sent to live in Maine because rhymes are fun. She now divides her time between writing, assuring people she is aware that Maine is cold, wondering where to put her next tattoo, and trying to reason with a surly Maine coon. Rumor has it her arch nemesis, Lauren Gallagher, is also somewhere in the wilds of New England, which is why L.A. is also spending a portion of her time training a team of spec ops lobsters. Authors Ann Gallagher and Lori A. Witt have been asked to assist in lobster training, but they "have books to write" and "need to focus on our careers" and "don't you think this rivalry has gotten a little out of hand?" They're probably just helping Lauren raise her army of squirrels trained to ride moose into battle.
Davidson King
EMAIL: davidsonkingauthor@yahoo.com
Josh Lanyon
EMAIL: josh.lanyon@sbcglobal.net
Charlie Cochrane
Slay Ride by Davidson King
The Case of the Grey Assassin by Charlie Cochrane
Lessons in Keeping a Dangerous Promise by Charlie Cochrane
The Venetian and the Rum Runner by LA Witt
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