To Die For by Davidson King
Summary:Joker's Sin #2
Managing the bar at Joker’s Sin, a gay nightclub, is Max’s dream job. Where many seek fame or fortune, he’s living his best life, surrounded by family and friends. The only thing he doesn’t have is the guy to complete him.
Lane, AKA Sparkles, sees too much of the person he used to be when he looks at Max, and none of it is good. But the stubborn man won’t let up, and when Sparkles’s past threatens to unravel his whole life, it’s Max who steps in to save him.
Can these two opposites push past their differences to see just how right they are for each other? Will they get a chance before it all falls down around them? Or is their love one to die for?
👀While it is book 2 in the Joker’s Sin Series, it can be read as a standalone👀
Lane, AKA Sparkles, sees too much of the person he used to be when he looks at Max, and none of it is good. But the stubborn man won’t let up, and when Sparkles’s past threatens to unravel his whole life, it’s Max who steps in to save him.
Can these two opposites push past their differences to see just how right they are for each other? Will they get a chance before it all falls down around them? Or is their love one to die for?
👀While it is book 2 in the Joker’s Sin Series, it can be read as a standalone👀
Original Review September 2020:
Once again Davidson King has stomped on my heart, kicked me in the gut, Mama Bear Hugged me into submission, and all around bedazzled the beejeesus out of me.
From Max deciding whether or not to apply a little self-love before his sister walks in to the satisfying ending to Sparkles' past hiccup(and yes it's far, far worse and heartwrenching than a hiccup but I don't want to give any details away so let's go with "past hiccup"), To Die For is certainly worthy of the Joker's Sin tag, the Haven Hart Universe, and the storytelling stamp of the incredibly talented Davidson King. Just Yummy!
When we met Max in book 1, My Whole World, I'll admit I was less than impressed with him but I also knew there was more to the man than bedding anyone and everyone on two legs so I held back any permanent judgement. Boy was I right to do so. So much more to him. Again, I won't give anything away but just know that if you are familiar with Miss King's work than you know nothing is as it seems at first glance but getting to watch what makes her characters tick is an absolute dream.
As for Sparkles(Or Lane as he is known in his day job)? He is the kind of character you really need to experience for yourself to grasp. He too is more than what many see: club patron and dancer, I don't like to label people too much but I will say he has this aura around him that make some see only the outside and not the inside, see his moves but not what makes him move. I said "aura" well that may seem a bit flowery, but it certainly understandable why they call him Sparkles, when he's dancing he literally sparkles, he shines, because that is where he can "be free". Will he let people see(and yes by people I mainly mean Max) that aura, that sparkle goes far deeper than appearance and moves, it's just part of who he is.
Together Max and Sparkles have the potential to exude brilliance but will they live up to what each thinks the other needs? You know the answer to that: read to find out. You won't regret it. Do I want to say they evolve before my eyes once they found "the one"? No, but they certainly grow, they seem to find their spot in this world, not because they had to have someone to make themselves special or complete but because once they find each other there's this desire within to be what the other needs and in turn it gives them a focus to see other things around them and inside themselves clearer too.
Once again, we see that Joker's Sin is not just a place of employment, a club to let go, it is a family and as it should be, family looks out for each other. As in My Whole World, this family comes together to help Max and Sparkles with the previously mentioned "hiccup", to keep them safe. I don't do spoilers and I don't really think I am spoiling anything with these vague mentions because Davidson King always has heart, a HEA in her stories but it's the journey that is the where it all comes together and I'll never spoil that.
Is To Die For as brilliant as My Whole World? Definitely. Did I love Max and Sparkles as much as Atlas and Toby? Probably not quite. Is the difference even worth rating? Hell no. The men who work and play at Joker's Sin will grab you until you can't let go, they are characters that remain long after you've swiped/turned that last page. If you haven't read Davidson King before, don't wait another minute! She is definitely on my Top 10 All-Time Favorite Authors list, if there was an All Star game for authors she would be a shoe-in. Truth is(and I know I've said it before but I just can't stress this point enough) she is a genuine storyteller. What is the difference you ask? For me, an author spins a good yarn, entertains you, makes you see other aspects of life but a storyteller will create a world you not only read but you find yourself living within the covers of the book, you become part of the story, your senses come alive and in the case of her Joker's Sin series, you are sitting at the next table, you are standing on the street corner waiting for the light to change so you aren't late to get in the doors, so much so that there is a level of grief when you reach the last page and have to say goodbye(for now) to the people and the places.
%20post%20mon%20myst%20sept2026%20.jpg)
Lessons in Tracing a Dangerous Scent by Charlie Cochrane
Cambridge Fellows Mystery #16
When the normally reliable Mortimer Pollock goes missing, amateur sleuths Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith are called in to investigate. But the country is at war, time away from secret duties is scarce and edicts come from on high not to get involved.
Then a dying man insists on Jonty’s father being informed of his death, an apparent accident that appears less accidental by the moment. Are the two cases related, will the combined Stewart family resources be up to the task and who is leaving a distinctive trace of perfume behind them?
Oh how I love this series! Some mystery series can get tired and repetitive over time but IMO Cambridge Fellows is not one of them. As I've said many times, the author could write a full length novel or a 2-page pamphlet and I would snatch it up without a second thought. Drs Stewart and Coppersmith just never get boring, whether its early on, later in life, or anywhere in between they remain fresh, intriguing, and fun as they were in book 1, Lessons in Love. Jonty and Orlando are right up there with Holmes and Watson for mystery solving duos, even if that comparison would infuriate the lads, especially Orlando.
As for Lessons in Tracing a Dangerous Scent, YAY! just YAY!
The author takes us back to the early days of WW1 as we see the lads working in the respective elements of codebreaking and administration, and of course by going back to this era, we also get to see the always fun and entertaining Mr. and Mrs. Stewart. As a matter of fact, this just may be the most we've seen of the parents of all the entries, they may not be front and center but as close as they could without the complete removal of the MCs. I won't lie, it makes me intrigued by the idea of them having their own mystery to solve😉😉.
I won't go into too many details on the mystery front as this always has been and remains a spoil-free zone. There are times when I was confused(but in a good way) and thought there couldn't possibly be any more questions before some answers started to pop up, but frankly, in a great mystery there are always questions until the very reveal(hence the confused in a good way wordage😉). The confusion cleared but not until just a few pages prior to big reveal and the fact that it took that long for me is what makes this so yummy(well the duo themselves plays a little factor too😉).
Because the author does jump around the timeline from entry to entry, you really don't need to read more than the first couple in the series to enjoy all the crimes and mysteries of the Cambridge Fellows Mysteries. I say it that way because I really do recommend at least the first couple of books to fully appreciate the characters, the setting, the era, and everything that makes the lads who and what they are. Once again, the author has proven why I rank her as one of the top Queens of Mystery. Here's to hoping for many more crime-solving adventures for the Cambridge crew.
Doc by RJ Scott
Summary:Redcars #4
Raised in hell. Remade in blood. Levi is a mercy; he won’t survive.
Doc has lived his whole life in the shadows, using sharp skills and colder instincts to keep his sister and her kids safe. He fixes problems no one talks about, navigates dangerous circles without leaving a trace, and has learned that survival means staying hidden, staying in control, and never letting anyone close enough to see the cracks.
Detective Levi Rosen is the exception he never planned for.
Levi should walk away the moment he realizes Doc is tied to a world of underground violence, organ traffickers, and buried bodies. Instead, he finds himself drawn to the man behind the mask—the quiet precision, the impossible loyalty, and fear buried so deep it barely shows.
Together, they’re forced to navigate a violent network, shifting loyalties, and a past that’s been hunting Doc since he was a boy. And Levi has to decide how far he’s willing to go for a man who doesn’t believe he deserves to be saved.
Doc is a dark, emotional MM romantic suspense about trauma, obsession, forced proximity, morally grey choices, found family, and choosing someone even when the world keeps trying to take them away. This is Book 4 in the Redcars series and should be read in order.
When I read Redcars last year, I never cared for Doc. He was rude, unfriendly, had the worst bedside manner EVER, I never imagined him being the MC, especially one you rooted for. When I saw he was getting his own book, you can imagine my initial reaction was not one of "YAY!!!" but after a few minutes, I had no doubts RJ Scott would make him, well not "loveable" but definitely "rootable", okay that's not a real word but I'm sticking to it😉.
We learn quite a bit about Doc, Alejandro to a chosen few, and it helps paint a bigger picture as to why he is the way Redcars readers recall him as. To some extent, it makes it okay but there is plenty of it that still rubbed me wrong, HOWEVER, despite that, you want him to find a HEA, he's earned it. Liam has his own issues and hurdles, he is just so darn likeable, he just might be the one to help him find what he has been running from or avoiding all this time.
I won't go into details so as not to spoil anything. Just know that Doc. and Redcars as a whole, is definitely darker than what we have come to expect from the author. That said, she puts the same effort and part of her heart into the story. Dark or not, Doc is an unforgettable read that will bring you to tears, put you through the emotional wringer, and yet when you come out the other side, you are left uplifted, and I can't ask for more.
Novak is sitting on my Kindle but I think I need a little time to let my heart heal from Doc and Liam's journey before jumping in but I'm looking forward to yet another less than stellar character find whatever it is that will awaken his heart.
Dealer of Secrets by Davidson King
Summary:The Elite #6
If you have a secret you don’t want anyone to know, Zaire Vicario can find it. And if it’s worth something? Well, that’s currency to him. When things get desperate, the shadiest people call him in, and he makes their troubles go away with all the knowledge he’s acquired. He’s confident, powerful, and ready for anything. At least, he thinks he is. All it takes is one evening at The Anonymous and a man cloaked in lies to change Zaire’s whole world.
Carter Merrill enjoys his life healing people. As a traveling nurse, he brings light to a dark and gritty town. Until one phone call changes all he knows and all he is in the blink of an eye. Carter has never used his hands to harm, but when his twin brother is brutally murdered, he makes the decision to uncover who did it and seek revenge. The only problem is, he has no idea how to do that. When a stunning man approaches and offers to help, Carter has no other option but to walk into the lion’s den.
Deep dark lies, unrelenting lust, and dangerous liaisons thrust Zaire and Carter into treacherous territory and unfamiliar circumstances. They find their lives connecting, as well as their bodies, when one secret reveals layers of atrocities neither of them ever expected. Can they survive the savage storm ahead or are they doomed to the same fate as Carter’s brother?
Dealer of Secrets is a part of the multi-author series The Elite. Each book can be read as a standalone and in any order. What links these books together is The Anonymous, a club beneath the gritty city where only the elite are welcome.
Original May Book of the Month Review 2023:
All authors have one genre they excel at, no matter how great their writing is across the board, there is one category that speaks to them on a little higher level. For Davidson King, that genre is mafia-level mayhem. Seriously, she writes danger and mayhem so fluently I can't help but wonder if she isn't living a created life in witness protection due to flipping on her mob boss to keep her family safe. How can one create so consistently without having lived in that world at some point in her past?😉😉
For reals though, time to talk Dealer of Secrets.
I don't want to say too much about the intricacies of the plot, I won't squash any adrenaline that comes with self discovery. If you've read Davidson King before you know she's all about the HEA but the getting there is high octane, dangerous, thrilling, dramatic, mystery and that is where the meat and potatoes of this reading meal fills you up. There isn't a single thing that is simply page filler, every character, every morsel of info plays a part.
As for Carter and Zaire. They definitely fit the opposites attract moniker and yet they mesh instantly, attraction is palpable with potential for so much more. Carter's heartache over his brother's death breaks your heart and the warring within to follow his brother's instructions versus finding the truth made me want to crush him in a huge Mama Bear hug. I wanted to give him a strong whack to the backside when he wanted to find answers because you know he's not capable(I don't like the word "capable" here but a better word isn't coming to me right now) of doing so and yet you also know when he cashes in his brother's invitation to The Anonymous, intending to or not, he will find someone who is in the know and being in his position I'd want answers too so I can't make that backside whack too hard😉.
Zaire. What can I say about Zaire? I know that I picture a collector of intel as someone who hates crowds and loves to hide behind a computer screen, an introvert, but I think at the core he is quite the opposite actually. Don't get me wrong, as a collector of secrets he probably spends plenty of his time being Alice navigating many rabbit holes but he also craves flesh. Okay, that makes him sound like a vampire or cannibal😉, but what I mean is he craves personal connections, face to face interactions. I appear to be making Zaire sound kind of pervy but he's not, he is absolutely the kind of man I would want in my corner if I was Carter, personally and revenge-wise.
Together they work. Coincidence, happenstance, fate, call it what you will but meet they did, perhaps it was a way to give Carter some goodness to come out of the heartache of losing his twin. Not saying Zaire is a consolation prize but sometimes the powers-that-be know exactly what they're doing.
I can't forget about Audrey. Audrey might be where Dealer of Secrets has a bit of a Jetsons' element, is it possible for something like Audrey to exist? Sure. Does something like Audrey exist already? To some degree. She's very much like one of those homes-of-the-future shorts & cartoons Hollywood would show before the movie started back in the 1940s(and no I'm not old enough to recall those shorts actually in theaters but I watch a lot of TCM and they run lots of them to fill in time throughout the day's programming). What I do know is I would very much love to have an Audrey.
I have not read any of the other entries in the multi-author series, The Elite, but I certainly intend to. This is a series of standalones where the only connection is the club The Anonymous so there is no set reading order, the series order is only by release date not any need-to-be-read-by order.
Dealer of Secrets by Davidson King is an amazing piece of storytelling that even though we may not deal with the violence and mayhem, I do think most of us would feel the way Carter does and can understand his need for answers. With Dealer and the characters, especially Carter, King has created a world that is both highly fictional and yet very relatable. A delicious gem not to be missed.
On a personal note I just want to thank Davidson King for doing it again. A couple of years ago she released a book in May that I read right after Star Wars Day which allowed me to live out the Poe/Finn ship that should-have-been-but-never-was as their faces became the characters of that story in my head. With the release of Dealer of Secrets in May and having received an ARC earlier in the month, she allowed me to give life to that ship and though Carter and Zaire don't appear anything like Poe and/or Finn on paper, in my minds' eye they did. So thank you, Davidson King for letting me live out that fantasy once again.
Summary:
Nick Williams Mystery #7
Wednesday, June 16, 1954
Construction on the new twenty-story building for Consolidated Security at the corner of Market and Montgomery is ahead of schedule, thanks to Henry and Pam. Nick is looking forward to his office on the nineteenth floor. The twentieth floor is designed to be a restaurant. He's hoping for French or Italian. Carter wants something with less garlic.
But then an unknown man falls from the top of the steel skeleton and things grind to a halt.
When Henry gets a late-night call warning him and Nick to not investigate, Mike takes action to protect them both but Nick gets a late-night visit from some wiseguys and it doesn't end well... for them.
That's just the beginning of a tale of mobsters, refugees, and The Old Poodle Dog that twists and turns its way to a thrilling conclusion.
In the end, it's an adventure for Nick, Carter, and the whole gang in the City we love the most: Baghdad By The Bay.
Approximately 62K words. Includes historical fiction, gay history, gay rights, M/M romance, mystery, adventure, mafia.
Original Review June 2025:
Construction on a new office building, waiting to open their new offices on the top floor, what could possibly go wrong? As if you had to ask? It is Nick and Carter, after all.
There has been so much going on in my life this year, so many changes, so much stress and anxiety and unfortunately, even though books continue to be a relaxing step outside my life factor, finding the time and energy I want reviewing said books have become harder. So this will be shorter than it deserves.
Nick and Carter are still just a joy to read. Scratch that. You don't just "read" them, you experience them. You may not feel the danger physically but emotionally every single ounce jumps from the page and seeps into every pore. Their ever-growing but always-true, found family is everything most of us want, be it our inner or outer circle, you know they won't let the guys down and the guys won't let them down in turn. Honestly, as much as the mystery grabs me, it's that connection and devotion to their people that makes these a must read for me. I may not get to read them as much as I'd like, I enjoy every minute of them when I do.
With this entry, as it often does on some level, mystery and family intertwine, once the mob appears to have a role, Nick and Carter are given a blow when their home is destroyed which leads them to move into Nick's childhood home, or as it's often referred to: "the pile of rocks on the hill". A temporary scenario that could become permanent, will that weaken or strengthen the men's relationship with Nick's father? Will it help or hinder their search for what(and/or who is responsible) happened to the man who fell from their still-in-construction new office building? You'll have to read that to find out but I promise, you will enjoy every minute of The Mangled Mobster.
To Die For by Davidson King
CHAPTER ONE
Max
The sounds of boisterous laughter jolted me awake from my arousing dream. Every part of me wanted to slide my hand under the sheet and jack myself off to relieve the serious pressure, but it wasn’t an option because I lived in a house with people who didn’t believe in boundaries. Judging by how close the laughter was, I had maybe a minute until one of my sisters barged into my room.
I was able to slip my pants on before the inevitable happened. “Max, Ma wants you to run to the butcher and get those sausages she ordered.” Frances, my youngest sister, had a mischievous grin, as if she found joy in invading my privacy.
“Get out, Franny. You know I work late. Ma knows I work late. You’re harassing me.” I wagged a finger in her direction. “I also know she got those sausages, so fuck off.”
Her tinkling laughter always made my bad mood brighten, and I couldn’t hold my frown.
“Fine. You wanna sleep all day and miss Mama’s lasagna, that’s up to you.”
There was no way I was missing that. A quick look at the clock showed it was almost two in the afternoon. I had to be at work around six, so I had plenty of time.
“Let me shower, I’ll be down soon.”
After she left, I made my way to my en suite. Being the oldest, and the only male in the house, I had the biggest space. Living with my mother and sisters wasn’t ideal, but it was necessary. When my father passed away ten years ago, we all had to come together to make ends meet. My father was old-fashioned in that he was the breadwinner and went to work but my ma didn’t. She stayed home and took care of the house and kids. Between the four siblings, we were able to get jobs and keep things running really well.
I started the shower and, as I washed, thought about my life. Teresa, only two years younger, was married and had two kids. She and her family lived three blocks from us and while we no longer had her income, we did just fine. My job was pretty fabulous; I worked at the greatest gay club in all of Haven Hart. Joker’s Sin was unique, had the best of everything, and was run by my close friend Atlas Durand. He was a showman and had built the place up from nothing. When he asked me to run the bar there, I took it seriously and with the amazing paycheck, I knew I could help take care of my family while doing something I loved.
“Max!” I heard Teresa’s shout right as I shut the water off. Rolling my eyes, I snagged a towel and dried off.
“What?” I yelled back. There was never a low-volume conversation with my family. She was downstairs and unless I went to meet her, we would have this talk through the floor.
“Barney has bags of ice, and he needs help.” Barney was her husband. Great guy and likely didn’t need my help, but that didn’t matter to my sister.
“Be there in a few. I just got out of the shower.”
I quickly dressed and met my family in the dining room, where Maria, my other sister, was just placing fresh-baked bread on the table.
“There’s my boy.” Ma came around the table, held my face in the palms of her hands, and kissed my cheeks. “You work so hard, so late. Here, sit and eat.”
“You know, Ma, I work at a daycare for eight hours a day. Why don’t you ever love me like you do Max?” Maria asked as she sat beside Frances.
“Hush and eat your food. Kids are a blessing.” That was how Ma answered questions she didn’t want to answer—by saying something was a blessing.
We made small talk as we ate. Barney told us about his construction company and the new project he was working on. Teresa worked from home, so she was able to be with Steven and Valarie, my nephew and niece, who were three and one, so I heard about the exciting and often gross new things happening there. They were great kids, and Ma doted on them all the time since they were the only grandkids. Like right now, she helped feed Val so Teresa could eat.
Maria and Frances didn’t have a lot to say about their jobs, and when there was a sudden silence at the always loud table, I knew what was coming.
“How about you, Max?” Ma asked. “You find someone to settle down with?”
I didn’t hide that I was gay from my family. They actually didn’t care, but what they did want was for me to find a nice guy and have a steady relationship. I had no desire to tie myself to someone. I liked variety, and I loved fucking. Even if the guys out there weren’t doing it for me anymore like they used to, and I wasn’t hopping into bed with just anyone.
“Nope, nothing yet, but I’m keeping my eyes open.”
Frances snickered. “You treat men like a buffet. A little of this, a little of that…never ending.”
“Frances, watch your mouth.” Ma waved her off. “Max will find his perfect match.” She winked, and I was glad the conversation ended.
As I helped clear the table, my mind wandered to the club. I wasn’t being completely honest with my family about finding someone. There was a guy, but he was unattainable and no matter how many offers I gave him, he always turned me down. Everyone at the club called him Sparkles, although I knew that wasn’t his real name.
I wasn’t sure if it was the game I felt we were playing or just how amazing he was—his hot-pink hair, glammed-up face, lithe body, outrageous fashion, and quick wit—but I wanted him, and lately I found myself comparing everyone I fucked to Sparkles.
“I gotta go.” Teresa kissed my cheek. “Have a nice night at work.” I nodded, my hands covered in soap as I washed the lasagna pan, keeping me from hugging her back. “Hey, Max?” I turned, and her face was so serious, I shut the water off.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Listen.” She inched closer, her chocolate brown eyes so much like our mother’s. “I love you like no other. If you never want to commit to someone, that’s up to you, but be happy. Don’t let anyone make you live their life, okay?”
“I won’t, I promise.”
Her lip curled, and mirth glittered in her eyes. “If you ever do find someone though, I will give them holy hell.”
I lifted my hands from the soapy water, and with a thrill, slapped the suds across her face.
“Oh. My. God. I hate you.”
I was laughing so hard, I didn’t notice her moving closer until she had the faucet sprayer in hand and had turned the water on.
“Sweet lord!” our mother shouted. “I will beat you both with a spoon if you don’t act your age.”
At that point Teresa and I were laughing uncontrollably, and we didn’t notice Barney had walked in. He’d just started to ask what was so funny when he slipped on the water and landed on his butt. After that, there was no way Ma could hold her stern expression.
We had a full, loud house with no boundaries, but this was my family and I loved them like no other.
* * *
Joker’s Sin was buzzing tonight.Atlas was known for his themed nights and as I scanned the crowd, seeing everyone dressed in disco wear, I had to chuckle. I wore a John Travolta Saturday Night Fever outfit, and that was as disco as I got. Running around the bar all night, I needed to be wearing something that wasn’t cumbersome.
Joker’s Sin was designed with the bar spanning the circumference of the stage, which raised up directly behind it. To get to the stage, you’d have to get past me and my bartenders, and that just wasn’t happening. We certainly got a workout sometimes, but I loved it.
I had five bartenders tonight, all part-time except Shane. He worked full-time like I did, and since he’d joined us about six months ago, I’d been able to cut out early a few times and leave him to shut the bar down. He was a good guy with bright-red hair and gray eyes. He was hot—there was no question, but there were a few reasons I didn’t try and dip into that. For one thing, Atlas warned me if I fucked where I worked again, I’d lose my job. That was a big reason. Also, redheads didn’t really do it for me. He had a great smile and customers loved him, but I felt more brotherly toward him, and I saw no sense in ruining that. He was also Toby’s best friend.
Toby ran the floor and was Atlas’s partner in life. No way was I going to upset the calm order for a piece of ass.
“Excuse me, can I have a strawberry martini?” I looked up from making a mojito and locked eyes with Sparkles himself. He generally went to other bartenders, but he knew if he asked me, I’d get his drink to him right away. He knew how much I wanted him, and I suspected he used that to his advantage.
“Sure thing, sweetheart. Let me get this one out, and I’ll get you yours.” I winked and was met with an eye roll.
After passing the mojito off to the customer, they handed me their number. I slipped the piece of paper into my back pocket and quickly went over to Sparkles. He stood, eyes wandering over the place while I made his drink. He wore an emerald-green shirt that shimmered when he moved. I couldn’t see his pants, but I had no doubt they matched. His fingers were painted black and he tapped them along the bar. His always hot-pink hair stood out like nothing else, and his face was done up to compliment it all. I had no idea how he did it, but he was a work of art.
“Here you go.”
He dropped a ten on the bar and said to keep it. “Hang on.” I couldn’t hear him huff when I stopped him, but I knew he did. “How is this outfit disco?” I gestured to his garb.
“This masterpiece is the epitome of disco. Look at these pants.” He lifted his leg so gracefully, it was as if he’d done it a million times. Large pieces of what I assumed were sequins were sewn onto the seams of the pants. They were some sort of fancy bell bottoms. “And this top? Are you even being serious right now?” He had a martini in one hand, the other on his hip. “I’m disco inferno up in this shit.”
Holding my hands up in surrender, I smiled and answered, “My apologies. I can clearly see you’re all about funky town.”
Sparkles sipped his drink with narrowed eyes. “I’m going to dance.” Without another word, he disappeared into the crowd and got lost in the throngs of people desperate to forget their day with alcohol and dancing.
Lessons in Tracing a Dangerous Scent by Charlie Cochrane
March 1915
“‘It is a truth universally acknowledged’,” Orlando Coppersmith read aloud, “‘that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.’ What a load of nonsense.”
“I told you not to read that book.” Jonty Stewart viewed him over the top of his glasses. “I knew you’d get annoyed at it. But would you listen? Would you my Aunt Fanny.”
“It’s well regarded in the college. Drs Peters and Panesar were singing its praises.”
“That I admit. As I do my own partiality to the story.” Jonty laid down the book he’d been occupied with. “However, I was able to get past the first line and appreciate the rest. It’s Jane Austen’s opinion, you know, not something set in stone like Pythagoras’s theorem.”
“Well, it’s a stupid opinion.” Orlando shut the book and laid it down in a marked manner. Perhaps he was in too bad a humour to appreciate the prose, having recently heard that one of his old professors at Oxford had been spouting unpatriotic opinions. “You possess a good enough fortune, but you aren’t in want of a wife.”
“That’s because—item one—I have no inclination to share my life with any member of the female of the species and—item two—I have your good self to meet my every matrimonial need. If only in the true state of our shared life, rather than the name given to it.”
Despite England having moved from the Edwardian to the new Georgian age, a romantic relationship of any kind between two men would be liable to find the two spouses incarcerated, unless they were lucky with the front they put up, as this pair had been. Two Cambridge academics who shared a house for convenience and because nobody else would have put up with them had proved a successful cover story.
However, Cambridge and academia had been temporarily—they hoped temporarily—put aside for London, where they were currently living with Jonty’s parents and tootling off every day to cramped rooms in Whitehall. One to his codebreaking duties and one to more of an administrative role, both placements secured by the good offices of their colleague Dr Panesar, who’d dropped a word in the right ear that this pair were just the chaps the head-hunters were presently looking for. All hands to the pump in a war that hadn’t been over by the previous Christmas, and jolly well looked like it would outlast the next one.
A distinctive triple knock on the door of their little sitting room no doubt heralded the arrival of Jonty’s father.
“Come in, come in, whoever you are, Papa,” Jonty said.
“Sorry to intrude on your precious leisure time.” Mr Stewart poked his head round the door but intruded no further. “Do you have a moment now or later when I could avail myself of your brains?”
“Several,” Orlando replied, a hopeful look in his eye that read as plainly as the text of any book. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of an exceptional mind, must be in want of a mystery to solve.
Mr Stewart sidled into the room, seating himself in the third chair. “This does seem rather less important than whatever it is you two do when you’re wherever you’ve gone to do it, but it’s bothering me.”
“Then tell all, Papa. Orlando is quite capable of solving a murder, developing an abstruse piece of mathematics and writing a letter to the Kaiser simultaneously.” Jonty glanced at his partner in both love and solving crime, amused to find his face now reading, I’m trying to pretend that you exaggerate my qualities, all the time believing that you don’t really.
“Thank you. There’s a chap at my club, Mortimer Pollock. He’s gone missing.” Mr Stewart raised his hand before they could make any comment. “I think we can safely eliminate one of the current reasons why a man might disappear from circulation. I doubt he’s lied about his age, signed up and is currently heading off to training camp, because he’s my age and walks with a limp. Unless they’re more desperate for men than anybody is admitting, I doubt the King’s shilling has been bestowed on him.”
“If he could have signed up, would he? What’s he like, in terms of character?” Orlando asked.
“A reliable man and a sensible patriot with a realistic outlook on events abroad, I’d say. Not like some of the old buffers who go on and on about how the war would have been over by now if they had been in charge. Pollock’s not a man who’d shirk responsibilities or danger were they to come his way. Therefore, I also don’t believe he will have taken himself off to the furthest tip of Wales or anywhere else he would be out of the range of airships.”
Orlando grinned. “You’ve understood my question perfectly. Are his family worried about him?”
“He’s a widower, without issue, which is why he haunts the club so regularly and why his absence was remarked upon.” Mr Stewart ran his hand across his hairless scalp. “Sir Charles Bracken proposed that he’d go round to Pollock’s house, ostensibly to return a book he’d borrowed, but really to see if the chap was, for example, dangerously ill. Before he could undertake his reconnoitre, Pollock’s butler contacted the club. His master hadn’t returned home the previous night and the man was becoming gravely concerned. At that point, which was Wednesday morning, he’d not been at the club since he left late on Monday afternoon.”
“By which,” Jonty said, “one might conclude that whatever befell him—or whatever he decided to do—can be dated to Tuesday morning. Two days ago. Did anyone ask this butler whether Pollock had taken a bag with him?”
“Not at the time, although I did this morning when our friend still hadn’t shown his face. I may, possibly, have played the Stewart as in ‘Stewart and Coppersmith’ card when I was on the doorstep.” Mr Stewart grinned sheepishly. “Broom, the butler, appeared suitably impressed. No bag had been packed or taken by his master, simply the umbrella Pollock always carried, come rain or shine.”
This mystery sounded exactly their cup of tea. “And what else did you ask Broom, oh Sage?”
“I didn’t need to ask him much. Our names alone loosened the floodgates.” Mr Stewart produced a small notebook. “I made some notes afterwards, although it’s possible something evaded my memory. Significantly, it was out of character for Pollock to have gone anywhere and not left word of where he’d be. He would normally inform Broom of his plans for the day, including whether he had an appointment with his doctor or solicitor or whoever. Pollock did regularly visit an old friend from university days, but the household would obviously be informed well in advance and he’d take a suitcase with what he needed for the stay.”
“Has this old friend been contacted?” Orlando asked.
“Not that I’m aware.” Mr Stewart pursed his lips. “Broom said he wasn’t sure of this person’s name and there are plenty of people listed in Pollock’s address book.”
Orlando shared a glance with Jonty. “Could be significant, that Broom wasn’t told the name, given that Pollock visited this man—or woman—frequently.”
“Yes,” Jonty said. “Especially if this person wasn’t invited to the Pollock house in return. Our staff would know all the comings and goings, wouldn’t they, Papa?”
“They would, my boy. I suspect they’re aware of our every move.”
Orlando, clearly unsettled at the notion of those below stairs knowing exactly what went on upstairs between him and Jonty when the chance presented itself, hurriedly said, “Is it possible that Broom knew the name and was holding it back?”
Mr Stewart considered for a moment. “I didn’t get that impression. I believe he was trying to be as helpful as he could be. Broom’s clearly a worried man.”
“Then maybe Pollock is drawing a veil over this person’s identity,” Orlando suggested, “because it’s a woman whom he’s visiting to…ah…satisfy the particular needs he has now that he is widowed.”
Mr Stewart nodded. “Quite possibly. Yet if he’s gone to her this time, why make the visit without so much as a spare collar or a ‘by your leave’ to anyone else?”
“What else did Broom tell you?” Jonty asked.
“That he, very sensibly, has been in contact with the police and the local hospitals and has drawn a blank. Nobody matching Pollock’s description has been brought in, for example following an accident, and he’s not hard to mistake because he still has a fine head of black hair apart from the white patch on his crown he’s apparently had since he was a child. He might, of course, have travelled further afield and be trussed up in a hospital ward miles away but he appears to be the kind of man who’d get word sent home.” Mr Stewart spread his hands. “Unless he’s out for the count with concussion.”
“Or unless he’s been leading a double life and has totally abandoned his present situation for the new one. Run off to join the circus as a strong man, with his beloved bearded lady.” Jonty chuckled. “Do they still have circuses during the current unpleasantness?”
“I wouldn’t know, my boy, although I do know Pollock, and unless he’s managing to hide his true character from us, he’s a man of integrity, with no obvious inclination to the flying trapeze and no obvious enemies, to boot.”
“Can a man truly have no enemies?” Jonty asked. “We three must have accumulated some over the years, given the number of people we’ve helped bring to book, and there will be others, with no connection to our detective activities. Anyone from the college next door, to start with, simply because we are St Bride’s men.”
“Pollock’s private life could have generated people who’d wish him harm,” Orlando pointed out. “What if he has a married woman as mistress and her husband has discovered what goes on behind his back?”
Mr Stewart steepled his fingers to his chin. “I confess I didn’t specifically probe Broom on such intimate matters, as the man was so upset. Would you like me to return, with a list of questions?”
“Perhaps we could find time to go together, when we’re not on one of our shifts,” Orlando said, wistfully, “although trying to co-ordinate all three of us would be difficult.”
Jonty slapped his knees. “We’re all here now. Papa, would Mama—or indeed the cook—allow us to defer dinner by half an hour so that we could employ some time now to nip over and see Broom?”
Mr Stewart beamed. “I’m sure that can be accommodated, given the circumstances. The problem will be persuading your mother not to come with us. I wouldn’t like Broom to be presented with a scrummage at his master’s door.”
Doc by RJ Scott
ONE
Gael
The room reeked of blood and sweat, a sour-metallic stink that clung to the back of my throat. The man on the chair slumped forward, wrists raw where the rope had bitten into him. His chest rose shallow and uneven—no breaks, no bruising, nothing visible to explain why every breath sounded wrong. His head lolled at an angle, jaw slack, lips split and caked with dried blood. One eye was swollen shut: the other stared glassy and unfocused. Dried streaks of vomit stained his chin, and each inhale rattled as if pulled through water. He was more corpse than man, a shell propped upright, skin carved and ruined, his body kept vertical only by rope and stubborn refusal to die.
“Don’t keep fucking with the product,” someone muttered in badly butchered Spanish, “he’ll die before we take his kidneys.”
“I have a way of keeping him alive.” A shadow moved. Boots scraped across the concrete. Raven’s voice was low, calm. Almost amused. “Gael! Here!”
They shoved me forward; my hands still stained with the iodine I’d been using on my mother an hour ago. Her cracked ribs had barely knit from the last time. Now this. Always this.
“Watch this!” Raven said, pride dripping from his words.
The victim’s eyes rolled white as I pressed fingers to his throat. Pulse—thready. Breath—a wet rattle. Not the chest. His airway. Something inside was swelling, closing, drowning him from the inside out. My stomach clenched. I’d seen this kind of thing before—too many times. Men, women, and kids who’d stood up to Raven and were left hanging by a thread. Some tried to bargain, some sobbed until their voices gave out, and others just went quiet and never spoke again—but all I knew was that life slipped away fast when someone sounded like they were breathing through blood.
I pressed along his neck and jaw, and it felt wrong—spongy, shifting, as if things inside weren’t where they should be. His throat was filling, bruised deep, maybe crushed, maybe torn, choking him slowly. In my head, I begged him—why won’t you just die, don’t make me do this—pleaded with him even as I knew he couldn’t hear, and my hands kept moving even as my heart tried to crawl away.
Raven crouched next to me, smoke from cigars and pungent sweat flooding my nose, staring into the eyes of the dying man. His big hand clamped on my shoulder, hard enough to bruise. I froze. Scared. Alone. With no choice but to obey.
Raven’s other hand toyed with the blade he carried everywhere—a narrow, cruel thing with a carved bone handle worn smooth where his fist rested. The grip was etched with tiny grooves, darkened by years of blood and sweat—the same blade he’d used tonight to carve the victim’s face into ribbons, each slash clean and precise, art to him and horror to everyone else. His grin was too wide, eyes bright with a kind of glee that twisted his face into something unhinged. He grabbed my hand, pushed it to the man’s chest, where his heart beat fast.
“Gael?” he rasped. “Feel him dying? That’s power.”
“Please, Raven,” I begged, my voice breaking.
He chuckled, a dry sound that made the hair on my neck prickle. His fingers dug into my shoulder as if he wanted to leave a mark. “You don’t get to choose,” he whispered, as if sharing a secret. “Your mama’s been useful—keeps her mouth shut, brings food, pays for the quiet. But even she wears out. I take what I want, niño. I make new toys when the old ones stop working.” He smiled then, too wide, and for a second his face softened, like a man humoring a pet. Then the smile snapped back, and the tenderness was gone. “Maybe I’ll bring your sister in next. Fresh meat. New lessons to teach.”
Someone in the small crowd of onlookers chuckled. “Lucía would be tight.”
I whirled on them, leering at me, one man holding his crotch. I tried to lurch for him, but Raven held me tight and shook me.
“You promised you wouldn’t let them touch my sister!” I said, and something inside me cracked, panic hardening into ice.
His thumb pressed into my jaw. “I can’t control my men.” In that moment, Raven was the devil in flesh, a nightmare made real, and he gloried in the way I waited and stared.
“I’ll do it!” I snapped. My voice didn’t shake, although my hands did.
Raven dropped his hand, and his gaze flicked to me, sharp, cold. “All yours.”
I tilted my chin. “Don’t touch my mom for a week.”
He closed his fingers around my throat. “You think you can bargain with me?” He spat the words.
I stared at him as his grip tightened. “I can keep this man alive for whatever you need from him.” God forgive me.
Raven glared at me, fury in his eyes, and then he released his hold, and I nearly fell to the floor.
“Your momma’s too broken to take what I give right now,” he said with a hateful laugh. “You have a deal, El Doctorcito.”
A week would give my mother time to heal. That was all I was asking for. Maybe I could get her and my sister Lucía away in the next seven days. I’d almost saved enough favors to get one of them across the border. I had to hold out a while longer. I focused on the victim as he lifted his head, and I saw a missing eye, the gaping hole, the ribbons of flesh from each cut Raven had made, the terror, the plea in his expression.
Let me die.
I had no gloves. No proper tools. Only a knife wiped once on a dirty rag and a length of tubing ripped from a siphon pump. My stomach churned, but I worked. Hands steady because I’d taught myself they had to be. Cut. Push. Clear the airway—blood and swelling choking him from the inside—until the man could drag in air again.
The man screamed again, then sobbed.
Still breathing.
I leaned back, sweat dripping into my eyes, and got my first sight of the stranger in the corner who wanted kidneys from this victim—sweating, overdressed for the heat, his accent was a butchered attempt at Spanish. An American. Out of place. Wrong in a way that made my skin crawl.
Raven wasn’t done showing me off.
He angled my face toward the American as though he wanted the man to get a good look at whatever he thought he’d made. “He learns fast,” Raven said, voice warm in a way that never meant comfort. “Faster than any of the others ever did.”
The American made a faint grunt of approval, but Raven wasn’t watching him anymore. His focus was fixed on me—too intense, too proud, the way a man might look at a weapon he’d forged.
“He doesn’t flinch,” Raven went on, admiration thick in his voice. “Not like the other ones who cried or begged.” His hand slid from my jaw to the back of my neck, anchoring me, guiding me closer to the dying man. “This one watches,” Raven added. “He listens. He remembers.”
The American’s brow lifted. “Are you training him?”
Raven smiled. Slow. Cold. “Already trained.” His fingers pressed into my neck—possessive, claiming. “He can tell you how long this one has left just by the feel of the heart. He knows where to cut to keep the rest intact. He knows how to keep a body alive long enough to take what needs taking.”
My stomach turned, but Raven didn’t let me step away.
Raven snorted a laugh. “Useful, isn’t he?” he asked the American. I was a tool, an instrument, a thing.
The American nodded once, businesslike. “If he can keep them stable, that’s worth something to my clients.”
Raven’s smile widened until it was all teeth. “He’ll be worth more than you think.” Something in his voice made the room shift—as if he believed it, as if he’d already written the future in blood and expected me to play my part. He tapped two fingers against my chest, right over my heart. “I built him myself,” he murmured. “Piece by piece.” My pulse stuttered under his touch, and his smile widened. “See how steady he is? He was made for this.”
The American didn’t argue. Raven never needed proof. He just needed an audience. He yanked me to my feet, pulled me into his side, and held me so close I couldn’t breathe, pushing me toward the men who stood around the room—his sicarios, loyal cartel soldiers with dead eyes and blood on their hands. The only thing stopping any of them from touching me was my usefulness to the compound and to the boss.
“El Doctorcito,” someone said with an exaggerated bow, and Raven laughed so loud it shook his whole body.
“El Doctorcito!” he cried, and then shunted me from the room, past the ring of his men, one of them pushing me into the Sinaloa sunshine and dirt—heat rising in shimmering waves, the smell of dust and diesel thick in the air, cactus and scrub baking under a merciless sky—as I stumbled—cicadas screaming in the brush, a dog barking somewhere behind the shacks, tinny music blaring from a distant radio—every sound too sharp in the hot air, and the smells too—roasting corn from a vendor’s cart, sewage trickling in the gutter, cheap beer spilled and souring in the sun. I ran for my fucking life back home. Neighbors stood in their doorways, eyes following but never meeting mine, pretending they didn’t see. A woman pulled her child inside; a man turned his back. Everyone knew, but no one ever spoke.
No one cared that my shoes were too small, that my voice still cracked when I spoke.
No one cared that I was only twelve.
Dealer of Secrets by Davidson King
CHAPTER ONE
Zaire
I was good at what I did— some might say the best. My choice of poison wasn’t guns, knives, or drugs; I didn’t threaten an enemy with a Glock, repeat some cheesy one-liner, then shoot them between the eyes. No, that wasn’t my style. I was the Dealer of Secrets. Knowledge was my weapon, and secrets were the bullets.
The man in front of me thought he had the upper hand, but my client had hired me to delve into this guy’s life, grab on to the dirtiest of skeletons, and use it to get what he wanted. The information I obtained in the process was mine and mine alone. I never shared with my clients any tidbits I found, and while that could be seen as dangerous, putting my life on the line, I had a plan ensuring that killing me would be the fastest way to release their secrets out into the world.
“Mr. Tolland, the land you are refusing to sell isn’t truly yours; you and I both know that.”
The large man scoffed, sat back in his chair, and attempted to stare me down. “Is that the best you got? Land’s mine. Tell Grainer to fuck off.”
Smirking, I removed my phone from my pocket. “See, yesterday I paid a visit to a gentleman by the name of Ferdinand Harper.”
Tolland’s eyes widened, and I realized I had him.
“Who?”
“This isn’t kindergarten, Tolland. Let’s not play games. You wanted that land for whatever failed business you’re attempting to conduct. However, you couldn’t pay for it. When you threatened the owner of the land, they laughed at you, and what happened then?” I raised a brow, glaring at the man as sweat began to drip along his temple.
“I’ll tell you. You killed him. You killed Harrold C. Tolland. Funny… isn’t that your name?”
“Fuck you and—”
“Ferdinand was the man you paid for Mr. Holland’s identity.” I tapped the screen of my phone. “And he told me all about it. He also revealed who you really are. Vito Nucci. A known snitch. The Esposito family would pay good money to know your whereabouts.”
Vito narrowed his eyes and his round cheeks trembled with anger, but he was powerless. He knew if he didn’t hand over the deed to the land to me for my client, he was a dead man.
“You’re a piece of shit, Zaire Vicario.”
I smirked again and slipped my phone back into my pocket. “You could have actually earned money off this land, but you went and made it ugly.” I lifted a shoulder before shooting him a grin. “Don’t worry, Vito. Give me that deed, and I promise”— I placed my elbows on the table and stared him right in the eyes—“ your secrets are safe with me.”
An hour later, I was handing my client the deed to the Tolland land and smiling as the large transaction showed up in my account. It was a good day.
That night, dressed in my black Tom Ford cooper hopsack suit with a black turtleneck underneath and my leather oxfords, I made my way to The Menagerie Hotel for an evening at The Anonymous. Since receiving my invite from there a year ago, I’d indulged several times.
The Anonymous was a club for the unsavory.… I supposed that would be the appropriate word. It was secure in that it didn’t allow weapons or violence. To break the rules was to forfeit your life, something I was sure had been carried out at some point.
My Ferrari 296 GTB was my baby. Deep silver with sleek designs, it never failed to turn heads. I loved the wide-eyed smiles valets got as soon as I handed them the keys to park it.
“Take care of her,” I warned the driver as I watched him drive away with her.
Ahh, The Menagerie, the most elegant and glamorous hotel in Old Defiance. Even the air surrounding the establishment was rich.
Built in the 1800s, it was ten floors of pure luxury— twelve, if you counted the two below the lobby that The Anonymous occupied.
The doors were held open for me and I entered the hotel, immediately grinning at the opulent foyer. I’d traveled the world, and no place I’d ever stayed was as stunning as The Menagerie.
I was an educated man, but when it came to architecture and design, I wasn’t fluent in description. My favorite part was the stained-glass windows in the ceiling. They mesmerized me with their subtle colors and grand composition.
“Good evening, sir.”
I snapped my head straight ahead and came face-to-face with the concierge. In the times I’d been here, I’d been greeted by this man twice. He likely knew who I was but wasn’t taking any chances.
“Evening.”
“How may I help you this evening?”
“Code seven-two-two-four.”
With a nod, he led me toward the private elevator which would take me down to the club.
As soon as the doors opened and I stepped out, I felt more relaxed. This place was a godsend.
I wanted a drink, but I was thinking of going to see what live performer there was and imbibe there. As I walked across the floor, I saw Dio Capelli lounging in a booth, his men surrounding him.
I’d never been hired by the man but was very aware of who he was, and judging by his curt nod in my direction, he was familiar with me as well.
The club was busy, but because it was so large and had two floors, it wasn’t obnoxious. I was glad no one stopped to talk to me. It wasn’t that I had no desire to speak to people— I was eager for a drink, a table, and some delicious music.
Upon leaving the bar area, I turned right and headed toward the entertainment room. The space was intimate: a small bar, a crescent-shaped stage, and several tables were scattered around the floor.
The woman on stage had a velvety soft voice and was brilliant as she sang the cover for Etta James’s “I’d Rather Go Blind.”
Once seated, a server came over. “Good evening, sir. Can I get you a drink?”
I smiled at the slight man. He was adorable with a button nose, curly blond hair, and a delectable, lithe frame. Jimmy was his name; I remembered spending a debauched night with him a few weeks ago.
“Peat Monster, please.”
His professionalism was commendable. Aside from the modest blush over his creamy white cheeks, he didn’t leer or flirt. It had been a one-night thing— an amazing night where I’d explored every inch of his skin, loving how his pale flesh had entwined with my russet tone.… Damn. I was getting hard. Maybe a repeat sometime, but long-term wasn’t my way. Relationships weren’t something I could afford in my line of work, so I scratched my itch whenever I could.
The singer took a break after three songs, and I was on my second drink. I enjoyed its smoky flavor and how I was finally feeling the stresses of the day wash away, when someone caught my eye.
They stood off to the side, stiff, eyes darting this way and that. His hands were at his sides, but the pointer on his right hand was tapping against his pants. In everyday life, seeing someone so nervous wouldn’t warrant my attention, but at The Anonymous it made no sense.
This was a place where those who spent a good portion of their lives looking over their shoulder could breathe, be themselves, and decompress. Whoever this was didn’t belong at all. A man with secrets. I smiled at the thought. My specialty.
The Mangled Monster by Frank W Butterfield
Chapter 1
The Palace Hotel
Corner of Market and New Montgomery Streets
San Francisco, Cal.
Wednesday, June 16, 1954
Just before 10 in the morning
I pulled the Buick up in front of The Palace Hotel on New Montgomery Street. An older man, dressed in a red uniform, walked around and opened the door.
"Welcome to The Palace, sir. Are you checking in?"
"No. I'm only going to be here for an hour or so." I added, "For a meeting. Can you keep the car close by?" I pushed a folded ten into the man's gloved hand.
Without more than glancing at the bill, he tipped his hat, smiled politely, and replied, "My pleasure. It will be right here when you're ready to depart."
"Thanks," I said. "Keys are in the ignition." I quickly walked up the steps and into the hotel.
. . .
The Palace had a storied past. The great Caruso had performed Carmen the night before the earthquake of '06 and was jolted awake when the shaking started at 5 that morning. He was so outraged at the experience that he vowed to never return to San Francisco. And he never did.
The original Palace had survived the earthquake but was destroyed during the fire that followed. The current building had opened in '09 and it was a grand dame.
President Harding was once a guest. He died in his suite on the eighth floor back in '23 and under mysterious circumstances. There was a wiseacre at school who liked to say, "He didn't make it out alive." That really busted us kids up, every time, but the history teacher was never amused.
As I walked through the magnificent lobby and outside to the Market Street side of the building, I thought about my husband, Carter Jones, an ex-fireman and the love of my life. His captain at Station 3 used to start off meetings by saying, "Back in '06, it wasn't the earthquake, boys, it was the fire, so listen up..."
The doorman courteously opened the door for me and I walked out into the bustle of Market Street. The sidewalks were jammed with men and women on their way to who knew where. The street was crowded with cars and trucks trying to move around the streetcars. There was talk of building a subway under Market Street that would move the streetcars onto tracks underground. It sure would be faster for everyone concerned but it was hard to imagine the scene in front of me without the clanging bells of the streetcars.
"Hi, Nick."
My reverie was broken by Henry Winters, Carter's best friend, former lover, and someone he'd known since childhood. They'd moved to San Francisco together in '39 by driving cross country when that wasn't an easy thing to do. Carter claimed we looked alike but Henry had green eyes compared to my brown ones and he was easily more handsome. Besides, he had a scar that ran along the right side of his face. It was a parting gift from a German officer and accentuated his good looks.
We shook hands. He looked across the street and said, "The skeleton is almost finished. With any luck, we'll start installing the windows in two weeks."
We were both looking at the frame of a twenty-story office building that stood at the corner of Market and Montgomery. We hadn't come up with a name for it yet, so it was called 600 Market Street because that was the official address given the building by the post office. It was going to be a modern square glass tower on the triangular spit of land that was bordered by Market, Montgomery, and Post.
I had bought the land in November of the year before and asked Henry, an engineer, to manage the project of getting it built. Things were moving along quickly and we hoped to be done and moved in by the end of the year.
I held onto my hat as I craned my neck and looked up at the top. There was an American flag attached to the top of the building. All forty-eight stars were fluttering in the morning breeze. It was more of a thrill to see the building so far underway than I thought it would be. And the idea of having an office up on the nineteenth floor was exciting on top of that.
Consolidated Security, the private investigation and security firm I owned, would be using floors fifteen through nineteen. The twentieth floor was designed to be a restaurant. I was hoping for French or Italian. Carter wanted something with less garlic.
I asked, "Any new tenants?"
Henry replied, "I think so. But you have to ask Robert. He's handling all of that and I don't have time to keep track."
I nodded. Besides being Henry's squeeze, Robert Evans was my whiz-bang real estate manager. He took care of everything to do with the properties I owned, including leasing out the two airplanes I'd bought in the last year. One was a silver Lockheed Super Constellation, called The Laconic Lumberjack after a friend in Georgia. The other was a tan DC-7 that didn't have a name yet. Both were being used right now by some Hollywood muckety-mucks who were paying a reasonable rate for two captains, a stewardess, and the luxury of their own plane. But, I didn't keep track of who leased them and where they went any more than I tried to keep on top of who was a tenant in any of my buildings. In Robert's capable hands, my real estate business was going gangbusters.
We stood on the street for a moment more. I asked, "Wanna get some coffee?"
Henry looked at his watch. "Sure. I have about twenty minutes before I need to get back across the street."
I nodded and said, "I'm buying," as we walked back into the hotel.
. . .
The Pied Piper was the bar inside the hotel. I always felt more comfortable there than in the more famous and much larger Garden Court. Its name came from the Maxfield Parrish mural over the bar that depicted the Pied Piper of Hamlin in bright colors. The big chairs were covered in a pine green leather. The wood-paneled walls were stained a chestnut color. Like the Garden Court, the room was partially illuminated by a modest stained-glass skylight. Unlike the Garden Court, under its intricately-designed skylight and tables set among ostentatious planted palms, the Pied Piper was quiet and more like the kind of bar you'd find in the Pacific Union Club up on Nob Hill. Since it was the middle of the morning, the place was mostly empty, with one or two late risers drinking coffee and reading their newspaper.
Once we were seated and had ordered coffee, I asked Henry, "How are things between you and Robert?" The two had started going together back in November.
Henry's face brightened and he smiled. His green eyes twinkled as he said, "Good. I'm in love." He leaned in. "I'm even thinking of buying a house."
I smiled. "Where?"
"Not sure, yet. Maybe Eureka Valley. I'm ready to move out of the Tenderloin for good."
"Robert going with you?"
Right then, the waiter brought us our coffee. Henry poured some cream into his while I dropped two sugar cubes into mine. He contemplated his coffee cup for a moment. Finally, he looked up at me and said, "I hope he will." As he took a sip from his cup, I wondered what he wasn't saying. After a couple of beats, he said, "I want to tell you something, but I'm not sure how to say it."
"Just spill it. You can say anything to me, Henry." I really did love him. He was like the brother I never had. People on the street often asked if we were twins.
He smiled wanly. "Promise you won't get mad if I tell you?"
"Sure."
"It's just that..." He took another sip of his coffee. I had no idea why he was stalling, but I could wait. I was good at waiting for people to say what what they needed to say.
Finally, he said, "I'm really in love."
I nodded. "Yeah."
"I mean it. I..." He stared out across the empty room. "I... This..." He took another sip. I nodded.
"Well, Nick. It's like this. I love Robert more than Carter."
I laughed quietly.
"What?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Carter was your first love. And you were his. Of course, this is different."
"But, I've known Carter most of my life. I still love him--"
"Like I love you. As a brother."
Henry seemed to relax. "Yes. As a brother."
"Look, Henry. I couldn't be more happy for you than I am right now." I leaned in a bit. "I think this is great. You've been miserable for too long. And now you have a great guy. And you're both great together." I smiled and said, "Buy a house and move in together and be happy."
Henry looked at me as though I had said the magic words. "Thanks, Nick. I will."
. . .
Henry looked at his watch. "I need to get back." We both stood up as I dropped a five on the table and began to walk to the front of the room when a voice called out, "Paging Henry Winters."
A kid in a red uniform and a square cap was standing at the door of the bar. Henry raised his hand in response. The kid nodded and waited as walked over to him.
"I'm Henry Winters."
"You have a message Mr. Winters. You're needed back at the site urgently."
Henry looked at me. I shrugged.
"Was there anything else in the message?"
"No, sir. But I'm told it's very urgent."
Henry gave the kid a buck. I followed him as he quickly trotted to the door and out onto Market Street.
I could see two patrol cars parked along Market in front of the building. Dodging traffic, we quickly crossed the street and made our way to the construction entrance.
A policeman was standing in front of the gate waving off onlookers. As we approached, he said, "Sorry, sir. This is a crime scene."
Henry said, "My name is Winters. I'm the project manager." Pointing at me, he said, "This is the owner of the building."
The cop stepped back and said, "Go on through."
We raced down to a spot where several people, including two cops and a police lieutenant were gathered. Pam Spaulding, the site manager working for Henry, was holding her hardhat. She looked shocked and angry.
As we walked up, I could hear the lieutenant asking, "What about safety equipment?"
Pam was indignant. "Every man up there is tied off. But, you're not listening to me. This man isn't on the construction crew. I don't know who he is."
Henry walked up to Pam while I held back. "What happened, Pam?"
She turned on him and said, "I don't have a fucking clue other than this Joe fell from the twentieth floor. I don't know who he is. Do you?"
"Pardon me, sir." That was the lieutenant. "Who are you?"
Henry was looking down at the man on the ground. He turned and looked at me with an expression I didn't understand. Turning back to the lieutenant, he said, "My name is Henry Winters. I'm the project manager for this building site."
The lieutenant scribbled something on his notepad. He looked over in my direction and seemed to recognize me. He smirked and made another scribble.
I walked over and looked down at the man on the ground. He was somewhere around 40 and mostly bald. His empty eyes were looking at the sky. His arms and legs were pointed in all sorts of wrong directions. They were obviously broken. I noticed there were some red marks on his neck and that his tongue, almost blue, was hanging out of his mouth. He was dressed in a dark navy coat with trousers that matched. His red tie was undone, which I thought was interesting. He was also missing his left shoe.
I stood up and asked the lieutenant, "And you are?"
The man replied, "Lieutenant Greg Holland."
"Central Station?"
He nodded and made more notes. "So none of you recognize this man?"
I looked at the other men who were gathered around. I guessed they were all employees of Universal Construction, the firm that Pam and Henry had hired. All of them were shaking their heads.
. . .
Once the body had been removed, the lieutenant pulled Henry, Pam, and me into the temporary construction office which was cramped and only had enough room for two small desks.
Standing with his back to the door, Lieutenant Holland took a good look at each of us. He was right at six feet. His nose was broken and had the tell-tale red lines that indicated a heavy drinker. He had brown eyes and brown hair and reminded me of Andy Anderson, one of the guys at the office, in that he was handsome in a nondescript way. A casual onlooker would have trouble remembering any of his facial traits other than his broken nose. He was wearing a London Fog coat over a brown suit with a blue tie that was loose at the neck.
He asked, "Are you sure none of you know who that man is?"
I nodded and watched Henry and Pam. Henry seemed to know something but said, "I have no idea." Pam, who was still angry, said the same thing.
I looked at the lieutenant. "Do you know who he is?"
The lieutenant shrugged and changed the subject. "We've done as much as we can here. You're free to resume work." He put his notebook into his pocket, opened the door, walked down the steps, and was gone.
I asked Pam, "Do you want to go back to work?" It wasn't my question to ask but Henry seemed to be lost in thought.
She said, "Hell, yes. We're coming in ahead of schedule and I don't want that fucked up."
I smiled and said, "Well, don't let me stop you."
Henry didn't say anything. After a moment, Pam banged open the door, cussing under her breath, and was gone.
"Henry?"
He was looking at the floor. At the sound of my voice, he looked surprised to hear his name. "Yes?"
"Who was that man?"
"What man?"
I rolled my eyes. "The one who was strangled and dumped off the twentieth floor."
"Strangled?" Henry was still looking at the floor. He leaned against one of the desks and sighed.
"Yes. Those were rope burns on his neck. Who was he?"
"Johnny Russell. Riatti Supply. Concrete." Saying the words seemed painful. And it was understandable. Riatti was known to be operated by the local mob family, run by Michael Abati.
"Why didn't you tell the lieutenant?"
Henry shrugged. "I was embarrassed, I guess."
"Why?"
Henry looked up. His green eyes were worried. "He was here to collect his payoff."
I wasn't surprised that it was happening. But I was surprised to be hearing about it right at that moment and not earlier.
"How much?"
"Five thousand."
"Where was that kinda money supposed to come from?"
"A thousand from me and the rest from Universal."
I grabbed Henry by the shoulders and shook him. "What the fuck, Henry?"
This got his attention. "What?"
"Why are you only now telling me about this? You shouldn't have to pay any of it. That's my problem, not yours."
I let go of him. He looked down again. "That's how Mr. Bechtel handles it."
I laughed. "When your company gets to be the size of Bechtel, then you can handle it like that. You know a thousand bucks is nothing for me." I opened my wallet and pulled out ten hundreds.
He shook his head. "I was supposed to pay him after seeing you."
I put the cash back in my wallet. "So, do you have the whole stash that you were supposed to give this guy?"
Henry nodded. He took out a set of keys and walked over to a filing cabinet. The bottom drawer had a kind of modified padlock on the outside. Leaning over, he unlocked the drawer and pulled it open. He reached in and brought out a thick envelope. "Universal sent this over by messenger early this morning."
I asked, "Did you count it?"
Henry closed the drawer and stood up. "No."
"Did you even open it?"
He looked at me. "No. Why?"
"How do you know there's four grand in there?"
Henry shrugged. I laughed. "Son, you gotta learn how to be in the construction business. Always check. Always."
He handed me the envelope which was sealed with cellophane tape. I grabbed a pair of scissors off the desk and slit open the envelope. When I looked inside, I found a stack of newsprint cut to look like currency. I held out the envelope and said, "See?"
Henry sat down abruptly in the desk chair and put his head in his hands. I sat on the edge of the desk and said, "Rookie mistake. Don't sweat it."
Henry looked up, his face a picture of misery and moaned, "They didn't cover any of this when I was in school at Cal."
I laughed and said, "Buck up, cowboy. We need to go pay your friends over at Universal a visit. And we need to get there before the cops do." That reminded me of something. "Can I use the phone?" I asked.
Henry nodded glumly. "Sure."
I reached over, picked up the receiver, and dialed the office.
"Consolidated Security." It was Marnie, my gem of a secretary.
"Lemme talk to Mike."
"He ain't here, Nick. He's over at the North Station."
"The minute he gets back or, if he calls in, give him this message. Ready?"
"Shoot."
"Lieutenant Holland. Central Station. Unknown guy pushed off twentieth floor of 600 Market today around 10:15 or so. There's more, but I wanna tell him in person and after he's checked in with Holland. Got that?"
"Sure. Gruesome, huh?"
"Like a goddam pretzel."
"Gee, Nick."
"I know. Thanks, doll." I put down the phone and stood up. "Come on cowboy. Put on your hat and let's get saddled up. We have some cattle rustlers to chase down."
Henry smiled briefly, put on his hat, and we made our way through the construction site and out onto Market Street.
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.
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.
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.
RJ ScottWriting love stories with a happy ever after – cowboys, heroes, family, hockey, single dads, bodyguards
USA Today bestselling author RJ Scott has written over one hundred romance books. Emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, single dads, hockey players, millionaires, princes, bodyguards, Navy SEALs, soldiers, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, cops, and the men who get mixed up in their lives, always with a happy ever after.
She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isn’t with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a week’s break from writing, she didn’t like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldn’t defeat.
Frank W Butterfield
Frank W. Butterfield is the Amazon best-selling author of 89 (and counting) self-published novels, novellas, and short stories. Born and raised in Lubbock, Texas, he has traveled all over the US and Canada and now makes his home in Daytona Beach, Florida. His first attempt at writing at the age of nine with a ball-point pen and a notepad was a failure. Forty years later, he tried again and hasn't stopped since.
Davidson King
EMAIL: davidsonkingauthor@yahoo.com
Charlie Cochrane
NEWSLETTER / KOBO / RIPTIDE
EMAIL: cochrane.charlie2@googlemail.com
RJ Scott
To Die For by Davidson King
Lessons in Tracing a Dangerous Scent by Charlie Cochrane
Doc by RJ Scott
The Mangled Monster by Frank W Butterfield
No comments:
Post a Comment