I got nuthin' . . . except a Turner Hahn/Frank Morales Oldie

I got nuthin' brilliant or original to say today.  The brilliant and original . . . and you can add 'witty' as well . . . packed their bags and left last night in total frustration.  They hopped onto a boxcar heading for San Diego and said they'd maybe be back come Spring time.

That's what happens when you're writing a novel . . . in my case, two novels . . .  and you hit the middle portion of the story-telling and become extremely frustrated.

On one hand I hate it when that happens.  On the other hand I love it.  While I'm not writing like mad and instead, look like I'm picking my nose and eating too many cookies while I watch the Tube . . . actually the blob of gray matter between my ears is sorting out possible plot and subplot deviations that might work.  The problem is, there's a TON of different variations that could easily fit in and move the books along.

So which one do you choose?  Yeah; good luck on that one, Hortense!

So while I'm screwing around with this conundrum, I thought I'd share an old Turner Hahn/Frank Morales story with you.  One I happen to particularly like.   It's called The Dead Don't Complain.
Hope you like it.

Either way, buzz me up in here and tell me what you think.

The Dead Don’t Complain

 

 

 

            The stench was enough to make a drug addict with a burnt out septum want to gag.  A stench so clawing, so thick, it seemed as if it enveloped you like a rain slick and pressed against your clothes.  That’s what you get when you find a body that’s been dead for about two weeks.

 Holding handkerchiefs to our noses we tried to view the body with a distant, professional gaze.  Being homicide detectives it goes with the territory at examining dead bodies.  No matter how bad they stank or how decomposed they were.  But when a body’s been dead for two weeks, lying in a bed in an apartment room with the windows closed and locked and no ventilation even two old dogs like Frank and I think about transferring to something more mundane like Parks Patrol or Administration.

            From what we could tell the man had been stabbed twice in the heart by a wide, long blade.  At one time the dead man had been in his early forties, going bald, with a body that belonged to an athlete.  The two room apartment we found him in was down on Fourth Street.  A bad neighborhood filled with drug addicts, prostitutes, and other assorted fauna and flora of the discarded.  Just a two room apartment with broken furniture, a battered looking window unit air conditioner in the bedroom, and a big iron bed large though to sleep maybe three people in it.

            Someone had been thorough in searching the dump.  The man’s clothes were strewn all over the place and ripped to shreds.  The large, broken four drawer chest of drawers had been completely dismantled.  Chairs shredded and pillows ripped to pieces.

            Someone was really interested in finding something here.  Obviously something important enough to warrant murder.  We stood back and watched the forensics team begin their methodical fugue of the dead.  But glancing at my no-necked, red haired Neanderthal wannabe for a partner I nodded toward the door and silently we made our way out of there.

            Frank Morales is the lovable teddy bear kind of guy.  If you can image a six foot three, three hundred pound gorilla with stringy red hair and a chin built out of plate armor as lovable.  Actually he is.  He’s married to an Italian ex-model and has a passel of kids and lives in traditional suburbia.  But he’s also a cop.  A damn good cop.  And he’s my partner.

            “I'm gonna throw away this suit.  You’ll never wash the stench out of it.  Momma’s not going to be happy.”

            I nodded and grinned.  Claudia, his wife, would blow a gasket at the thought of throwing away a perfectly good sport coat and slacks only two years off the racks from Walmart.  A breath-taking beauty Claudia was.  But she was a penny pinching tight ward as well.

            “You’ll look good working this case in your underwear and loafers,” I quipped, grinning. “Maybe even start a new trend.”

            “Shut up, pretty boy, and let’s go talk to the apartment manager,” Frank grunted, a twitch at the corners of his lips—the only kind of grin he had in facial expressions—“And loan me a couple of hundred so I can get a decent set of threads.”

            No problemo.  If the big lug needed money I was more than happy to oblige.  The guy had saved my neck in more tight spots than I cared to count.  A coupe of C notes meant nothing to me.  The pretty boy clip he threw at me was an old joke between the two of us.  Unfortunately I’ve got two strikes against me.  I’m rich and have the mug of an old movie star from back in the ‘30’s matinee idol days.  Won’t mention any names, but the unruly black hair and the thick mustache and dimples are enough to give anyone a jolt—if they know their movie trivia.

            The money was an inheritance.  Came suddenly and unexpectedly from a grandfather I had, until about three years ago, never met.  Before that I—like every other cop I knew—I lived from pay check to pay check and felt lucky if I carried a ten dollar bill in my billfold on any given day.  But let me tell you, brother, being suddenly rich and with a mug like mine it isn’t something I’d wish on anyone.  You’d think sudden wealth would make me want to leave the cop business and live on a sunny tropical beach somewhere in the Bahamas surrounded by beautiful women.  Sorry.  Not me.  It so happens I like being a cop.

            Listen.  If you’re a cop and suddenly fall into a shit-pot load of money unexpectedly and from a secretive family member who doesn’t like limelight thrown his way, and you’ve got problems.  Cops—being cops—are a naturally suspicious lot of cynics.  Comes with the territory.  So old friends in the department look at me warily.  They don’t say it to my face but many of them think I’m dirty.  I’m on the take. 

            And yeah, to answer the unsaid question; it sticks in my craw.

            But those are the crosses I carry.  No big deal.

            The apartment manager was about five foot four and close to the weight of a Chevy Suburban.  He answered his door wearing slacks, chopping on an unlit cigar like it was a loaf of bread, wearing nothing but a t-shirt that did little to hide the thick forest of coarse black hair covering his chest and arms.

            “So you gonna clean up that mess up there?” he growled after we showed him our badges. “The sonofabitch is stinking up the whole goddamn building.  Someone’s gotta kill that stench before it drives out the rest of us.”

            “We’ll remove the body,” I said, frowning, pushing my way past him and entering his hovel uninvited. “But sanitizing a rat hole is your kettle of worms.  What we want to know is who this guy was.  How long has he lived here. And when did you see him last alive.”

            The fat man’s castle looked like it came out of a dumpster.  Newspapers were stacked a foot deep beside a worn out looking reclining chair.  Beer cans and filled ash trays littered the place.  A glance at the kitchen told me the slob must have had a phobia about washing dishes.

            I turned back to look at the fat man.  He was chewing on his cigar and his cheeks were turning to a kind of purplish crimson.  He didn’t like me pushing him back and walking into his hive.  Touch shit.  I didn’t like him.

            “Listen, before you say something stupid, just give us what we want and we’ll leave.  Otherwise we haul your ass downtown and I’ll let my partner here introduce himself to you on an intimate basis.”

            Frank has an interesting trick in his bag of goodies.  He can take a can full of beer with his big paw of a hand and squeeze it hard enough to blow the pull-tab off completely.  Beer flies out of the can with such force it usually splashes golden rain drops from the ceiling of a room.   Sitting on the floor beside the recliner was a six-pack of Budweiser.  Not saying a word he bent down, retrieved a can, and demonstrated.  It was enough to make the slob reconsider his righteous outrage.

            “Called himself John Simmons,” he growled, pulling the cigar from his mouth and looking angrily at Frank. “And I just bought that fucking six pack, you ape!  Look at the goddamn mess you’ve made!”

            From my slacks I pulled out a money clip and rolled out two twenties and tossed them onto the seat of the recliner.

            “That’ll cover the damages, friend.  Now, next question:  how long has John Simmons lived here?”

            “Lived here he hasn’t.  Comes in regularly with a broad or two and spends the weekends.  Maybe once or twice during the week as well.  But he doesn’t live here.”

            “How long has this been going on?”  I asked,

            “A couple of years.  Maybe a little longer.  Pays his rent in cash like clockwork.  Never talks to me or to anyone else in the building.  Just brings his women in here and screws the hell out of’em.  I get complaints all the time about the noise they make when he brings company.  But I don’t say a thing.  He’s about the only person in here who paid his rent on time.  I couldn’t care less what he did with his women friends as long as I got paid.”

            “When did you see him alive?” Frank grunted, tossing the empty beer can onto the man’s favorite chair.

            “Jesus,” the slob grunted, genuinely surprised, as he stuck the stub of his cigar back between his thick lips. “I didn’t know apes could talk.  But to answer your question.  I saw him come in with some bimbo blond about a couple of weeks ago.  The woman was a looker.  A real class act.  Not like the women he usually brought with him.  She had money.  Lots of money.”

            “Did they say anything to you?”

            “I saw him through my window.  They came walking up the sidewalk.  The guy owns a fancy car and parks it in a parking building a block over. One of those foreign jobs that costs a lot of money.  Red in color with some kind of Italian name I’ve heard of before.”

            “Name of the parking building?” Frank asked.

            “Claussen’s, I think,” cigar man said, frowning and lifting a hand to scratch an arm pit. “Over on third.  Half way up the block.”

            We thanked the man for his gracious willingness to help an on going investigation and left him standing in the hallway scratching his other armpit as we walked out of the building and headed for the parking building.  A quick walk over to third and we found the parking building and flashed badges into the face of the young black man on duty and told him what we were looking for.  A big grin instantly flashed across the kid’s face.

            “The Lamborghini Contouch. Jesus!  What a gorgeous set of wheels!  I get a stiff one just looking at the damn thing.  Yeah, it’s here.  Up on the second deck.  Still in one piece.  The guy who owns it has paid enough to all of us working  here to make sure no one touches it.  Big bucks.  Here, I’ll take you up there and show you.”

            The kid was more than happy for an excuse to go up and look at the car.  Can’t say I blamed him.  A bright red Lamborghini Contouch is modern Italian sculpture.  A Star Wars kinda looking thing on wheels.  And it says money as well.  About two hundred grand worth.

            “Got the keys for it?” I asked, holding out a hand.

            “Right here,” the kid grinned, reaching over and dropping a set into my hands.  I noticed on the key chain a house key as well.

            I opened the driver’s side door and carefully looked around.  Forensics would be over to give it the detailed once over so I didn’t want to leave stray prints behind.  But I did find an insurance card stuffed in a sun screen and used a pair of tweezers to pull it out and look at it.

            “Colby Winslow,” I said, frowning.  “Sounds familiar . . . Colby Winslow.”

            “He should sound familiar to you, you big oaf,” Frank grunted, shaking his head sadly. “He’s big in stocks and bonds.  Handling a boatload of your money for you. Has an office over on Jones Street.”

            Grinning, I glanced at the kid staring up at me with big eyes and a surprised face and shrugged.  I admit it.  To be honest at times I forget I’ve got money.  Lots of money.  I don’t handle it myself.  When the inheritance came I did some research, found four or five experts in financial planning and split the inheritance into five equal amounts and let them handle it.  Colby Winslow was one of the five.

            “Guess you’re gonna have to find another money guru, pretty boy.”

            Smiling, looking at the hunk of Italian steel, I nodded.

            “Been here how long?”

            “Damn near two weeks,” the kid said, white teeth gleaming in the twilight light of the darkly lit parking building.  “Way too long for me to guarantee he’ll have his set of wheels when he comes back.  Already had to run off a couple of bros’ who wanted a piece of it.”

            “Remember the last time you saw him?”           

“Sure.  When he came in last he came in with that woman of his.  Jesus.  Talk about a looker,” the kid sighed, hands on his hips, shaking his head in quiet admiration.  “Like something out of a movie, mister.  Fine. Fine. Fine!”

            “Describe her,” Frank said, watching the kid and almost smiling.

            “Oh shit, legs about a mile long.  Wearing a tight blue number that showed every curve she had.  And bubba, she had the curves.  Long blond hair fell down to her waist.  Maybe in her early thirties.  Only thing outta place was this big loaf of bread kinda envelope she held tightly under one arm.  Like it was money itself.  But hell, a woman with legs like that, she could wear a chicken on her head and I wouldn’t give a shit!”

            The kid whistled softly through his teeth again and a smile played across his young, handsome face.  He was maybe twenty at most.  Just a young black kid going to college.  I spied the stack of textbooks lying on the desk in the parking booth he occupied when we came up to him.

            “He’s down here a lot in that car?” I asked.

            “Like clockwork on the weekends, mister.  Always with a different piece of ass.  Always.”

            The kid asked when the guy was coming to pick up his wheels.  We told him it wasn’t going to happen soon.  We left the kid standing beside the Contouch staring at us when we told him patrol car would be over soon to tape off the parking spot and car.  No one was supposed to touch it until then.  Walking back to the flop house I noticed it was a little past midnight.  It was time to go home and get some rest.  So we climbed into one of my babies—a dark green with white stripes SS 396 Camaro—lit up the engine and growled away into the night.

            Remember.  Rich cop.  Collects toys.  In this case American made Muscle Cars.  Yeah, I know.  Some collect bottle caps or barbed wire.  I collect cars.  Go figure.

            The next day we were looking through the desk of Colby Winslow’s at his office.  In the outer office two lovely ladies, his secretaries, were crying their hearts out after hearing their boss was dead.  Between the two was an elderly man dressed like a conservative banker.  He was handing dry tissues to one girl and then to the next as needed.  His name was Konrad Bonner and he worked for Winslow has a stock and bonds acquisition expert.   The man, in his middle sixties, had been Winslow’s first employee.  Knew all of the customers the firm serviced.  Knew me by my first name.

            “Don’t worry about your investments, Turner.  They’re well protected and doing quite well on the market.”

            “Uh huh,” I nodded, frowning as I thought about it. “Who runs this place now that he’s dead?”

            “Well . . . for the moment, I will until we can find a buyer for the firm, I suppose.”

            “A buyer?”

            “Turner, this nest is a freaken’ cash cow,” Frank chided, looking at me and shaking his head. “They invest money—you’re money, pretty face—and they rake a percentage off each account.  Jesus, take a look at his list of clients.  Maybe three hundred of’em, and not a one of them worth less than a million.  If he rakes in three percent off each client’s portfolio . . .”

            “Ahumph,” the older man growled, lifting a hand politely and clearing his throat, “That would be four and a half percent charge, Detective Morales.”

            “Jesus,” my partner grunted, staring at the man in admiration. “That could be millions, Turner.  Millions in sheer profit.”

            “How much would it cost for someone to take over the business?”  I asked as I looked the office over.

            The ex-banker in his conservative brown suit and wire rimmed glasses mused over the question for a moment or two and then mentioned a number.  My eyes narrowed as I turned and stared at financial genius.  A thought crossed my mind.  An idea . . .

            “Look at this, Turn,” Frank said behind me.  Twisting around I saw him lay a big finger on a name written hastily down in a small file book.  “Kathryn Valenski.  Six p.m.  At Europa’s.  Dated exactly two weeks ago.”

            Europa’s was a very fancy restaurant on the north side of town.  A place where you needed a reservation and a black tie to get in.  A place where the food was excellent but about the size of a postage stamp. And usually costing a couple of C-notes to eat there.  Lightly.

            “Who is Kathryn Valenski?” I asked, turning my attention back to Bonner.  “Another investor?”

            “One of our largest,” the white haired, bespectacled man nodded, smiling. “I perhaps should clarify that and say her father is one of our largest investors.  Although her own portfolio is quite sizeable as well.”

            “Describe her.”

            “Long blond hair.  Quite tall.  In her early thirties.  Quit friendly.”

            “You could describe her as beautiful?” I asked.

            “Oh . . . my!”

            Yeah.  They way he said it.  The layers of tone in it.  Yeah.  She was beautiful.  Grinning, I nodded and asked Bonner to find her address for me.  And as we left the office I handed him one of my cards and told him to give me a call later in the week. 

            Kathryn Valenski lived in a luxury apartment, top floor, in one of her father’s buildings down by the Little Brown River.  A doorman dressed like an Italian general opened the glass doors for us as we entered.  Entering a cocoon of wealth the building was as silent as a funeral parlor on a Wednesday afternoon as we rode in silence up the elevator to the nineteenth floor.  She met us as the doors opened and we stepped out.

            “Did you find them?”

            “Find what, Ms. Valenski?” I asked, the first to step out of the elevator.

            Let’s just say that Kathryn Valenski lived up to her billing.  Beautiful.  Scratch that.  Beautiful—simply doesn’t come close for a description.  Suck the air out of your lungs gorgeous would be a better description.

            “The portfolio.  The bonds!  Did you find them?”

            Frank and I watched her face closely.  Clearly there was genuine worry in those dark brown eyes of hers.  A look of real dread only made her look more breathtakingly gorgeous. 

            “Let’s start from the beginning, Ms. Valenski.  I’m Detective Sergeant Turner Hahn and this is my partner, Detective Sergeant Frank Morales.  We’re here investigating the murder of Colby Winslow. We have a few . . . . “

            “Yes, yes, I know dammit!  He’s dead.  But that doesn’t mean anything to me.  The one million in unsigned bonds is what I am worried about!  If dad finds out they’re missing I will be severely pressed to pay him back.”

            “Your father’s bonds?”

            “Yes.  Part of my inheritance,” she said, waving a hand around impatiently before touching her lips and eyes filling with tears. “Dad told me to take them personally down to Winslow’s office and make damn sure they were deposited according to his instructions.  So I did and Colby started to  . . . well . . . . “

            “Hit on you,” I said bluntly.

            “Yes.  In only the way he could.  He was really a darling, sergeant.  Kind.  Generous.  Handsome in an offish way.  Knew how to make a woman feel like, you know—wanted.”

            “So he invites you to speed a weekend with him in a sleaze hole down on Fourth Street?  I said, sounding distinctly suspicious, as my eyes played across her face.  “I betcha your father has a Learjet.  Why not a weekend in Las Vegas instead?”

            “Las Vegas is so passé,” she answered, her voice filled with discord. “Been there a thousand times.”

            “But a run-down shanty flop house on Fourth was something new to you.”

She hesitated, nodded, biting on a perfectly manicured fingernail with eyes tearing again.

            “Oh, I know I sound horrible!  More concerned about Dad’s money than about poor Colby getting murdered by that . . . by that . . . woman!  But he convinced me to go with him into that part of time and walk on the fringes of darkness.  To taste danger and crime at an intimate level.  I . . . I. . . god help me!  I found myself hypnotized by his words.  I agreed.  We left his office immediately and drove down in his car.  Left so fast we forgot to deposit the bonds in his safe.  He laughed, said carrying such a large bundle of wealth around like it was a grocery sack would make the experience more titillating!”

            “What happened next?”

            “Drink?” she asked, looking intently into both of our faces before turning and entering her apartment, talking over her shoulder.  “I need a drink.  A very stiff one.  Scotch maybe.  Or Jim Beam.”

            She had a stiff drink.  Big glass.  Two cubes of ice.  Half full.  Drank it down like a submariner straight off a six month stint at sea.   She was beautiful.  Rich.  Bored.  And a well kept lush.  Trouble quadrupled.  I watched and said nothing until she had drained the fuel tank.

            “You were saying?”

            “Ah, the woman.  Well, let me see,” she sighed,  reaching up with one hand to pull on strand of hair which had slipped across the front of her shoulder and faded off into time. “We got there late.  Maybe around eight or nine that night.  We fooled around a little and then I got up and went to the bathroom.  Hmmmm . . . I’m in there only a few moments and then I hear this angry pounding on the apartment door and a woman screaming furiously!  I slip my clothes back on and open the bathroom door up just enough to see what’s going on.  My god!  What anger she had!  Absolutely furious and waving this big knife around like a madwoman!”

            She poured another glass of booze.  This time topping the glass and stirring the ice around with a finger as she stared at the dark liquid and relived that night two weeks earlier.

            “What happened, Ms. Valenski.”

            “Huh?  Oh.  She came in screaming and waving that knife around and demanding to know where this bitch was he was with tonight.  Wanted to know where I was, sergeant.  Me!  Said she was going to kill us both.   I got so frightened I . . . I don’t mind admitting it.  I pissed in my underwear and almost fainted with terror.”

            “Winslow tried to stop her.  Tried to stop her and that’s when she knifed him,” Frank pitched in behind me.  But the tone in his voice told me he wasn’t buying it.  Any of it.

            “No.  Just the opposite, dammit.  He laughs.  Colby just laughed at her.  She’s dancing all around him waving this big fucking knife around like some witchdoctor and he just turns with her and laughs at her like it was some kind of big joke!  It was the most outrageous. . . most erotic . . . sight I had ever seen!”

            “She doesn’t kill him,” I put in, priming the pump again.

            “No!  Not then.  Not at the moment.  Instead a hand flashes out and he slaps the knife from the woman’s hand.  He grabs her and crushes her to his chest and buries’ his lips onto hers.  And that’s when I left detectives.  He turned her away from the bathroom door and motioned me to leave and leave fast.  I left.  Left as fast as I could.”

            “Left forgetting the portfolio and the bonds behind,” I said.

            “Jesus fucking Christ, yes!  Ran for my life, dammit.  Ran like a frightened little girl.”

            “But you came back,” Frank grunted behind me.  “And found?”

            Tears rolled down her perfectly formed cheeks as she played with fingernails across her lips and nodded.  God.  She was good.  A rich, bored, beautiful lush.  But a great actress as well.  Hollywood missed out in not throwing her up on a silver screen.  She was that good.

            “Came back.  Found Colby dead.  Blood all over him and that bloody knife lying on the floor beside the bed.  I took the knife and I . . . I went crazy looking for the bonds.  I must have torn the place to pieces looking for them.  But they were gone.  Gone.”

            “You touched the knife, leaving your fingerprints on it” I said.

            She nodded, watery eyes filled with fear.

            “But you didn’t kill Colby Winslow.”

            She nodded again—meaning she didn’t kill Colby Winslow.

            “This woman who came in with the knife, can you describe her?”

            Tall.  Thin.  Flat.  About thirty.  Kinda of cute in a tom boyish way.  An athlete.  Raven black hair.  She remembered seeing her several times over the years in Colby’s office.  She was sure the tom boy was another investor.

            “Okay, we’ll find her,” I said, nodding and turning to leave.  “But just to let you know, Ms. Valenski.  Right now you’re number one on our suspect list.  If I were you I’d call daddy up and get him to find you a good lawyer.  A team of good lawyers.”

            On the way down in the silence of the elevator I half turned and asked.

            “Believe her?”

            There was a grunt.  Maybe more like a hippo snorting. 

            “Maybe.  Let’s see if we can find the knife-wielded chic.”

            We did.  It took a few phone calls.  A little footwork.  Cop work is like that.  Ask questions.  Make some phone calls.  Slide miles of leather across hard pavement.  Ask more questions.  A lot more questions.  Repeat the process.

            Her name was Gail.  Gail Oppenheimer.  Widow of a man who became wealthy creating a string of gym/martial arts palaces across four states.  She still taught classes herself.  Her specialty—fencing.  Cold steel.  Long blades.

            Violet colored eyes watched us with a quiet resignation registered in them.  She saw us enter her place and knew instantly who we were.  Frank and I both dress in comfortable slacks, sport coats, comfortable shoes.  We wear shades.  Either we’re classy thugs working for some mobster.  Or we’re cops.  She chose correctly.

            “You’re here to arrest me, aren’t you detective,” she whispered, looking up at me as she sat behind a wide desk in her office.

            “Maybe,” I nodded but not sounding optimistic.  “Depends on what you say.  Depends on what the evidence tells us.  But you know why we’re here.”

            She nodded, ran a calloused, fighter’s hand across her face and used a finger to wipe a tear out of the corner of her eye.

            “I have a temper, detective.  One that can sometimes get out of hand.    But that doesn’t mean I killed Colby.  I couldn’t kill him.  I loved him too much.”

            “Just start from the beginning and tell us what happened that night,” I said, the two of us standing in front of her desk with me looking the office over.

            She had an office with two large plate glass windows which looked out into the main part of the dojo. As I looked two men wearing the black pajamas of karate instructors stood side by side and watched us with silent interest.  Behind her on the walls were row after row of trophies of various sizes.  And swords.  Several different lengths of fencing foils, rapier, knives, and daggers.

            This chic was seriously in love with cold steel.

            “I saw Colby leave with Kathryn Valenski that night.  Saw them get into Colby’s car.  I knew where they were going.  To his love nest.  To screw her.  After he had promised me the night before we would go down there for the weekend.  I blew up.  I went crazy.  Followed them down there.  Pounded on the door wanting to catch them in bed.”

            “To kill them,” Frank grunted.

            “I know I must have screamed something like that at him.  But no.  I couldn’t kill Colby.  Love is a terrible mistress, gentlemen.  I know of his infidelities.  I know he didn’t love me.  Sex addicts usually don’t love anyone but themselves.  But I loved him.    Loved him terribly.”

            “But you did come at him with a knife.  A very big knife,” I put in.

            “Just to scare him.  Just to frighten him.  Just to show him how much he meant to me!”

            “And it worked?”

            “Ha!” came the barking reply.  A surprising jolt of a woman jilted often.  “Colby knew me too well.  He just laughed at me.  Just laughed and took the knife out of my hands and threw it to one side.  And then he grabbed me and took me into the bedroom.  We made love that night.  Several times.  All weekend.  Sunday afternoon I had to leave him lying in bed asleep.  I had a major tournament to go to and I had to leave.”

            “He was alive when you left him,” I asked.

            “Yes.  Alive and sleeping like a baby.”

            “What about the portfolio?”

            “What portfolio?” she asked as curiosity lit up her face.  “You mean that big brown bundle Kathryn carried with her?  Oh.  That.  I dunno.  I saw it lying on the coffee table in front of the divan when I came in.  Thought nothing of it.  As far as I know it was still on the coffee table when I left.”

            One of the two male instructors walked away as several students entered the dojo.  The other, a tall man with big hands and a bushy mane remained standing on a mat and watched us intently.  He looked concerned.    He kept reaching up and rubbing his lips in a fitful gesture of someone really nervous about something.  A gesture both Frank and I were quite used to seeing.

            “When did you go back to the apartment?”  I asked, returning my attention by to the woman.

            “I didn’t.  The tournament went all afternoon and late into the night.  When it was over I drove back to my place and went to bed.”

            “And that’s the last time you saw Colby alive,” Frank asked behind me,

            “The last time,” she nodded.

            “When we came in here you knew why we were here.  Knew who we were,” I began, my voice hard. “We’re homicide detectives.  You knew he was dead.  How?”

            She shrugged with a smile of infinite sadness on her boyish lips.

            “I just knew.  I’ve been calling his office, his apartment, just about every number I know trying to find him.  Every day for two weeks.  And then last night,  for some odd reason, I drove down to the parking garage where he always parked his Lamborghini and saw it still in the same slot he had parked it in two weeks ago.  That’s when I began to fear the worst.  You two coming into the dojo confirmed it.”

            I nodded and glanced out the window.  The big man with the shabby mop of hair was gone.  Frowning, I glanced at Frank and then looked back at Gail Oppenheimer.

            “Did anyone else know you loved Colby Winslow?  Anybody here in the dojo, for instance?”

            She nodded with a cloud of questioning filling her eyes.

            “It’s no secret. The staff and I are quite close.  We share or woeful tales of our love lives almost daily here.  Both Doug and Marlin—my instructors—know how I felt for Colin.  Why do you ask?”

            “If you didn’t kill Colby Winslow and Kathryn Valenski didn’t ill Colby Winslow then who did?  Who else had a motive to stab a man to death and steal a million dollars in bonds?’

            “A million dollars . . . . in bonds!  Oh, my god!  Marlin!”

            “Marlin?  Big man, shaggy mop of hair, one of your instructors?”

            “He’s been moping around in the dojo for a week or two now.  But he bought himself a brand new car.  Said he paid cash for it.  Said he’d won some cash on a roulette table in a casino in Kansas City.  My god.  Marlin!”

            “What about Marlin?”  Frank asked irritably.

            “Oh . . . Marlin has had a crush on me since the day I hired him.  He thinks he’s in love with me.  But I always thought it was just an infatuation.  Still, he always was forceful in his efforts to dissuade me from getting involved with Colby.  Very heatedly so sometimes.”

            “Where does Marlin live, Mrs. Oppenheimer?”

            She quickly wrote it down and handed us the paper.  Without another word we left and climbed into the Camaro SS and left.  About the time I pulled away from the curb the cell phone buzzed loudly inside my sport coat.

            “Turn, this is Joe down at the morgue.  Thought you should know.  The dead guy?  Someone popped him in the jaw with a big hand and big ring.  Broke the jaw.  Didn’t see the bruising at the crime scene because the body was too decomposed.  But a closer look at it down here and it’s obvious as hell.  I’m pretty sure it was a man who killed your dead guy.”

            Joe was Joe Weiser, a smart-assed, gum chewing kid for a forensics expert who worked with the coroner down at the morgue.  Kid or not Joe was damn good at his job.  If he said he thought a big man with big hands was our probable killer that’s all I needed to know.  It fit.

            Fit indeed.

            We found Marlin at his apartment hurriedly throwing clothes into a suitcase.  When we walked in he glanced at a .357 magnum lying on the bed beside the suitcase.  But, glancing at us and seeing us shaking our heads and reaching for our own iron, he decided a sudden invitation to lie on a morgue slab himself was not the way he wanted to go down.

            Let me tell you, friend.  Money will get you in trouble.  Money and beautiful women will kill you.  And oh yeah. . . .the old ex-banker and I got together.  Seems like now I am a part-owner in a thriving investment company.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mark Gilroy is back

Mark Gilroy has two books out featuring his sharp edged homicide detective, Kristen Conner.  With this I came up with an interesting idea.
Why not give Mark free reign and let him discuss his books and his characters in any way, shape, or form he wanted to.  No stipulations attached.

Aha!  Little did I know Mark was going to make me look like a genius in the art of interviewing fictional characters!  It turns out I am particular insightful.

And of course, we already know I'm quite modest.

But here's the deal;  Mark Gilroy is a gifted writer.  If you like reading a dark story filled with interesting characters and a plot that weaves a gripping story line, well then pumpkin!  You need to 'discover' this guy and add your name to his fan list!

So take it away, M.K.!

Klarissa Conner is a rising star as a television newscaster with the #1 station in Chicago—and is also well known as the younger sister of Detective Kristen Conner, the lead character in M.K. Gilroy’s novels, Cuts Like a Knife and Every Breath You Take. As an author—and fan—of murder mysteries, I thought it would be fun to interview the only recurring character that seems to give as good as she gets when dealing with Detective Conner.

  

BR: Klarissa, you host a popular weekend show on Chicago’s #1 news channel and frequently co-anchor the nightly news.  You’ve had an amazing start to your journalism career. What’s your secret to success?

 

KLARISSA: The key in this business is opportunity, and if it isn’t staring you in the face, you have to create your own. When I was at University of Illinois as a journalism student I worked as hard as anyone with the campus station—I was willing to go places and put in hours to report a story when others weren’t. That’s what got me my senior internship at the leading news station in Springfield, Illinois. I never complained when I was knee high in mud interviewing a farmer on the upcoming soybean crop and I consider my time in Springfield as a fabulous start to my career. Two years later I landed in Kansas City, a major league market. Because I’m a Chicago native and the daughter of a Chicago police detective, that undoubtedly helped open the door to my biggest break … so far.

 

BR: Your family is all in Chicago. Is this your dream job? Can you see making your career in the Windy City?

 

KLARISSA: Never say never. The media business is in constant flux, so it may not be up to me anyway. I’m very happy here and it would be hard to leave, but I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t like to land a national gig at some point.

BR: Anything in the works?

 

KLARISSA: No comment.

BR: I thought that was my line. (NOTE: She doesn’t seem as amused as I thought she would be by that clever line by yours truly.) You did a major interview with your sister, Detective Kristen Conner, following her last case, where she ended up killing the killer in the case known as the Billionaire Murder. What has been the response to that? Was that another break?

 

KLARISSA: I would consider that interview another huge break for me. Ratings were through the roof in Chicago and it got a lot of national and international play. The interview ended up in syndication and has been rerun extensively in markets of all shapes and size. We’ve had a couple million hits on YouTube. But let me just say, if my sister is involved, you work for what you get. She plays everything by the book. Her great fear has been that her colleagues at the CPD will think she leaks information to me because I’m media. I don’t even bother to ask what she’s working on anymore. But when I pitched this story it went straight to the commissioner. He and he brain trust at CPD—and I assume City Hall—thought it would be good to clear the air after all the media frenzy the investigation got. When the heir of a multi-billionaire is killed the interest is off the charts.

 

BR: So she doesn’t talk about her cases with you?

 

KLARISSA: Never.

 

BR: The two of you had a traumatic experience together last year …

 

[SPOILER ALERT. IF YOU HAVEN’T READ CUTS LIKE A KNIFE SKIP THE NEXT PARAGRAPH.]

 

KLARISSA: We actually had two traumatic experiences. Our dad was shot on the job a couple years ago. He spent his last years as a quadriplegic before dying in early 2012. And yes, being targeted and then taken by a serial killer is one of those experiences that will never go away. In ways, Kristen saving my life is a bit of a microcosm of our relationship. Things are sometimes strained and prickly, but she always comes through in the end. Always.

 

BR: So your relationship with your sister is difficult?

 

KLARISSA: I didn’t say that. We’re different. We fight. But we 100% love and are loyal to each other. I don’t think we’re the only two siblings who drive each other a little crazy but are close.

 

BR: Are the two of you competitive with each other?

 

KLARISSA: We are both driven, but in such different ways that we never compete directly with each other. But honestly, we probably do compete. Don’t forget my older sister. Kaylen is the perfect Conner sister. She keeps Kristen and me humble.

 

BR: Let’s go back to the killer the Chicago media dubbed The Cutter Shark.

 

KLARISSA: I’m not going to say anymore about that. The main details are out there and I don’t have anything to add.

 

BR: Does it worry you that he’s still alive?

 

KLARISSA: No comment.

 

BR: Does it worry you that your sister is a homicide detective? Do you worry about her safety?

 

KLARISSA: I worry every day. But I also know she is tough enough for any challenge. She’s relentless. If you’re a killer and she is on your case, you should be worried too, but for your own safety.

 

BR: How do you think the Cutter Shark Case impacted Kristen?

 

KLARISSA: Kristen has never been an open book on her feelings. You’re going to have to ask her.

 

BR: Thanks for your time Klarissa. Any closing comments?

 
KLARISSA: You’ve had a lot of interest in Kristen, and I’ll just give you a heads up. Stay tuned. She always ends up being in the middle of something b

Speculations

Turner Hahn

Hmmm. . . .

Over the last three years (maybe four)  I've written a number of short stories featuring homicide detectives Turner Hahn and Frank Morales. About twenty-six stories, give or take a few.  Two cops who are close friends and absolutely equal in capabilities.  Well . . . one (Frank Morales) looks like someone's nightmare out of Bedlam (yeah; Bedlam used to be a hospital in London for the insane.  May still be for all I know).  Short, stringy red hair.  An IQ about four digits in length.  No neck.  With a photographic mind.

Turner, on the other hand, looks like a famous movie star from out of the '30's (betcha it won't be too hard to figure out).  An ole' farm boy who had a rough life as a kid but who, years after joining the police force and going through a bad marriage, suddenly falls into a bath tub full of money.  Inherited money from an grandfather he didn't know still lived.

So the two of them have their own personalities.  Have their own sets of emotional baggage they deal with on a daily basis.  Yet together they are a working team who . . . almost always . . . get the homicide cases no one else would touch with a fifty foot pole.

They get the tough ones.  The weird ones.  The impossible ones.  And just to add some joviality (at least, in the full length novels I write about'em)  they're usually working on one or two homicide cases at a time.  All of'em the scratch-your-head-and-pass-me-another-aspirin- kind of case.

But the short stories are just one case at a time.  About two dozen of'em.  Most of them have seen the light of day in various ezines.  A few of them will be brand new.  And yes, I think there is STILL a huge audience out there who would be quite happy to discover their unique brand of humor and wise-ass commentary.

So the idea is collect'em all.  Package them into one big anthology.  Hopefully find a publisher who likes these kind of stories and offers them as an ebook and in print.  Maybe generate enough interest from a newly discovered audience that a demand will begin building to 'rediscover' their novels.  There are two novels out there now featuring these two (check the column to the right; they're there).  A third novel is done and is waiting in limbo.  And there's many more stories and plots swirling around in the back of my head.



Frank Morales

I thought about becoming my own publisher.  But the problem about this is I would have to start out small.  The market offerings would be small.  But Turner and Frank should be offered across the widest venue of markets as possible.  Wouldn't know how to even begin.  Nor, frankly, do I really want to.  Becoming my own publisher would be just another hat to wear, another set of problems to confront, taking up more time than I would want away from my writing.  So no.  That option's out.

So . . . back to table one, Andre.  Collate the stories.  Hope for the best.  Find a publisher.  And hope Lady Luck smiles on my efforts.

Back to Rome and Decimus Virilis

Back to the writing an ancient Roman facsimile of a Sherlock Holmes.

We've talked about this before.  How do you create a character who is not Sherlock Holmes but compels you to think of Holmes while you're deep in the pages of the book?

You see the problem.

Mimic Holmes too much and you have, frankly, just written another Sherlock Holmes novel but set in a historical context.  Not mimicking a few of Holmes' intellectually quirks and you've just created a whole new character.  So what is the fine balance between too much and not enough?

I've created a Roman by the name of Decimus Virilis.  Decimus 'The Lucky.'  Lucky is what Virilis means,  among other interpretations.  Ex-soldier.  Retired as the third-ranking officer in a Roman legion (the highest rank a professional Roman legionnaire could acquire);  not so distant cousin to Caesar Augustus (time frame for the novel is set around 10 C.E.).  Very efficient.  Very astute.  Has a knack at deducing analytically problems.  Much like our beloved Holmes.

As Holmes implied, "Most people see . . . but few people use their eyes and senses to observe." Decimus Virilis is the observant type.  To the max.

The problem I'm having with Decimus is that I cannot etch his personality into a three-dimensional form just yet.  I meander from making the guy dark and mysterious to someone elderly and quite willing to reveal his methods on investigating a crime scene to anyone who might show some interest in him.  As an associate of mine who is closely involved in this project pointed out to me, after reading what I have so far,  "I can't tell if this guy is creepy or is just a nice old ex-retired soldier." 

Ah!  Epiphany!

In one sentence from a distant observer my problem fully revealed! 

Screw Sherlock Holmes.

Write about Decimus Virilis.  Don't constantly stand him up against Holmes and compare what Holmes would do in a situation versus what Decimus might do.  The novel (and possibly series?) is not about Sherlock Holmes.  It is about Decimus Virilis.  It's about the history of Rome.  It's political intrigues.  It's conquests.  It's mysteries.  It's about a man, wrapped in hard won, and sometimes brutally acquired, experience and using that experience to observe those around him.

Problem solved, Pueblo! 

Maybe now the writing will come a little easier.  With that in mind I thought I might share Chapter Two with you.  If you go back in the archives here in the blog you can find Chapter One.  Remember now, this is just the rough draft I'm sharing.  Yes, Yakima;  you will find a few boo boos in spelling and grammar.  That'll be cleaned up at a later date.   So, take the time to read it and maybe spend a few seconds more and give me your thoughts. 

Always interested in hearing your thoughts. 

Two

 

            To his right the waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea in a blue haze that drifted off into the horizon.  Sails, white and wine red, from several large cargo ships heading for the port of Ostia behind him dotted the blueness like jewels set in a blue velvet frame.  Sea gulls circled and wove through the partially cloudy skies above them.  The sloping countryside sliding down to the see was a lush verdant green.  To him it looked like the vast gardens of a royal estate as he rode down the rough trail toward their destination.

The sun was out and deliciously warm.  The panoramic view of the countryside around him pleasing to the eye.  The waters of the Tyrrhenian setting in its haze a splash of color on a beautiful canvas.

            One would think, if one only trusted his eyes and nothing more, the world was beautiful and peace and tranquility was the order of the day.  But he knew better.  Life was an illusion.  Beauty only a mask to hide the darkness and pain from our eyes.

            Reining in the powerful mare he was riding he turned and looked at the small entourage behind him.  Gnaeus, looked decidedly ill at ease sitting on a horse, dressed in the garb of a Roman legionnaire.  With the plain conical helm of a legionnaire partially hiding the thick mass of pepper and salt colored hair, the simple off white linen undergarment underneath the typical lamellar armor of a Roman cavalryman, the old infantryman that had been Gnaeus scowled at Decimus but said nothing.

            Smiling he turned his head and looked at the two other men who drew their mounts beside Gnaeus.  One was a thin framed with the hooked nose of a scowling hawk.  Like Gnaeus, he too was dressed in the typical armor and uniform of a cavalryman.  And like his servant, a man whom Decimus had known for years in the army.  A specialist in his own right.  A man who knew how to find things.  Any thing.  Find it and retrieve it without making any raucous noise about it.   Some said Rufus was a thief.  A pick pocket. A purse snatcher.  He knew Rufus for what he truly was.  A man with a very special talent any commander of a legion would need sooner or later.

            Or a man now in his newly appointed position.

            The third cavalryman was very much different.  He was a tall man with thick arms and powerful thighs.  Yet he rode his horse with the ease of someone who had lived all his life around horses.  He was dark complexion with jet black eyes and a small mouth.  There seemed to be an aloofness . . . a sense of otherness . . . that separated him from the others.  Indeed he was this stranger.  He was not Roman born.  He was a foreigner.  A tribesman from the deserts of Morocco.  Yet he too, like the others, a man whom he had known and trusted for years.

            "Hassid.  That way," he said lifting an arm and pointing toward the south.  "Check the surrounding countryside for any tracks.  Make a full circle around the crime scene.  You will find us there when you return."

            The black eyed hunter from the desert nodded silently and urged his horse on.  He moved out rapidly and soon disappeared into a copse of trees hugging a small hill.  Decimus, waiting until the rider was well out of sight, grunted and turned his horse toward the southwest and heeled its flanks.

            With the two riding abreast and slightly behind him the newest tribune of Rome's newest force, the Cohortes Urbanae, they topped a small grassy knoll and began descending rapidly down upon the odd scene below.

            After the civil wars, after Octavius' arch rival, Mark Anthony, had been dispatched to Hades, Octavius returned to begin rebuilding both the city of Rome and the empire.  In Rome, after decades of neglect and civil strife, he found a city dominated by powerful underworld gangs. Gangs, many times, bought and paid for by powerful patrician families of Rome.  To fight the tenacious tentacles of organized crime he created two organizations and gave them the specific tasks of bringing crime under control and providing some measure of safety for all the citizens of the city.  One was the old Vigiles Urbani.  The other was the Cohortes Urbanae.

            The vigiles were the firefighters and beat cops of the city.  The city-watch.  A carry over idea, greatly expanded, from the numerous privately funded fire brigades and neighborhood watches that littered the city during Julius Caesar's time.  The Imperator collected the various units into one unit, assembled them along the lines of a Roman legion, and established taxes to pay for them.  Most of the men were ex-slaves commanded by Roman citizens--usually retired officers from the army.  They worked during the night looking for fires and chasing down common hoodlums.  But they were effective if not, occasionally, a bit brutal.

            The Urban Cohorts acted more like the homicide division of a city's police force.  They investigated violent crime, organized crime, political shenanigans. They too were organized along the lines of a Roman legion.  But unlike the vigiles using ex-slaves as their manpower, only Roman citizens could join the cohorts.  Better paid and equipped compared to their vigiles cousins the Urban Cohorts could, if the need arouse, actually be pulled from the city's street and used in military operations.

            The Imperator commissioned Decimus with the rank of tribune in the Urban Cohorts.  A tribune minus the normal eight hundred or so men most tribunes in the army, or the vigiles, or the urbanae,  would command.  His orders, straight from the quill of Octavius himself, decreed he was on detached service answerable only to the Imperator. 

            His assignment was simple.  Find, and bring to justice, those whom the Imperator thought were of a particular dangerous threat to the newly acquired peace of the empire.

            Like this case.

            Reining up suddenly in front of a group of men, a mixed bag of vigiles and urban cohort soldiers standing around the destruction of what once had been a large wagon, he nodded to the centurion in charge and then slipped from his horse, throwing back the edge of his short scarlet and purple trimmed short riding cloak in the process.

            "Hail, tribune!" the young officer said, snapping to attention and saluting.

            "At ease, son.  And be so kind to inform me of this situation."

            In the thick grass were several large dark stains where people had died violent deaths.  The bodies were gone but the visual evidence was ample to the trained eyed to conclude no one had survived the attack.  A quick sweep of the ground suggested to Decimus at least four people were dead.  The litter of several wooden trunks smashed to piece with their contents strewn all over the side, even the ripped out bottoms of the wagons themselves mixed in with the other flotsam, indicated someone must have been in search of something important.

            "Night before last the servant of a merchant in Ostia brought word there had been a series of murders . . . a massacre as they described it . . . just outside the port.  I sent two men out on horses to ascertain the truth.  As you can see the information was correct."

            He saw Rufus nod his head toward his master and drift off toward the sea to begin his assigned task. Gnaeus, scowling as always, silently moved away in a different direction and began looking at the signs left behind in the dirt and grass.  Decimus nodded, turned, and strode to one particularly large dark stain in the grass and knelt down.  The young centurion behind him followed respectfully yet watched the two servants of the tribune curiously.

            "The bodies?"

            "In Ostia, sir.  In the morgue of the vigiles' barracks.

            "Any survivors?"  he asked as he used an index finger and traced the outline of a particularly large partial print of distinctive shoe sole in the dust of the narrow trail beside the grass.

            "None that we know of.  When I arrived I found four bodies.  Two men of rank it would seem and two servants.  And, of course, the scene which greets you now."

            "Identification of any of the men?"

            "None.  No signet rings.  No personnel scrolls.  Nothing of monetary value left behind."

            "Are you sure, centurion, of the veracity of your men?  Are you sure no one in your command decided to claim a small prize of his own?  Say the first two men who came out and discovered this scene?"

            He stood up and turned to face the younger man.  A hot flash of anger swept across the centurion's face but quickly subsided.  The officer was of a famous plebian family.  A very famous, and rich, family.  Rarely had anyone doubted his veracity.

            But standing before was a tribune with a high sloping forehead, with a thin swipe of grayish/blond hair covering the upper regions of his cranium, the deep, experienced wrinkled face of a man who had seen much in life; the confident, almost arrogant, gate of a soldier.  And there was the way the tribune gripped his ivory tipped baton, the symbol of rank for any high ranking Roman officer, which cautioned him.  Not just an ordinary soldier.  But someone who was used to command.

            A man not to be trifled with.

            Frowning, he turned and barked loudly two names.

            From the huddled group vigiles two men stepped forward and came to attention. in front of the centurion.  Decimus, eyeing the two freedmen, slapped hands behind his back, stepped up very close to the men and began inspecting them closely as circled them.  Glancing down into the dust of the wagon ruts he selected noticed the prints of their sandals they had just imprinted into the dirt.

            "You," he said, using the long wooden baton of authority he gripped in one hand and slapped the man forcefully on the man's biceps. "Your name!"

            "Gallus, sir!"

            "You and this man beside you discovered the bodies last night when you road out from Ostia?"

            "Yes sir!"

            Decimus nodded, hands gripping the baton behind his back, head down and staring at the ground thoughtfully as he walked slowly around the two men and stopped directly in front of the man who called himself Gallus.

            "Centurion, what is the punishment for a vigilii who is convicted of thievery?"

            The rough looking plank of an ex-slave visibly paled.  As did the man standing beside him.  Decimus eyed the man but returned his attention back to the one standing in front of him.

            "Ten lashes with the whip, sir.  And garnishment of one month's of wages.  Of course, if the theft is large enough, perhaps he might become a contestant at the next set of gladiatorial games."

            Beside the white faced Gallus the vigiles at attention groaned softly and his knees almost buckled.  The centurion, angry, exploded in rage.
            "By the gods, Gallus!  You filthy liar!  I'll personally peel the flesh off your back with a cat'o nine tails if you don't confess to your crimes now!  Do you understand me!"

            "Sir!  I . . . we . . . it was just a little thing!  Nothing expensive . . . really!"

            Decimus turned his head and watched the forever scowling Gnaeus trotting up toward him carrying something white and thin between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand.  He nodded and smiled grimly as he recognized it immediately.  Extending a hand, palm up, toward his servant the bushy haired.  But his unwavering light blue eyes were riveted onto the face of the man calling himself Gallus.

            Gnaeus delicately deposited a severed finger onto the open palm of his master's hand.

            "Let me tell me paint you a picture of what happened last night, my good man.  Interrupt me whenever I stray from the truth."

            The young centurion strode up to stand by balding yet dominating force of Decimus Virilis and turned crimson faced in rage when his eyes fell upon the severed ring finger.  Slapping the small baton all centurions gripped angrily against the side of his bare leg he turned and gave his man a dark, murderous look.

            Decimus, snarling back a dangerous smirk, zeroed his eyes on the man in front of him and continued talking.

            "You and your companion arrived last night just as it began to lightly rain.  You found this site as it appears today.  You found four dead bodies, clothes and furniture scattered all over the field, two small wagons completely dismantled and strewn about.  There was no gold.  No jewelry.  Nothing.  Except for one small item . . . "

            Lifting the severed finger in his palm he delicately put it directly under the ex-slaves flaring nostrils and continued.

            "You found a rather large fat man with a small signet ring on a finger.  A ring which would not come off because the man's fingers were swollen.  No no . . . don't deny it was a signet ring.  In fact I suspect it was a signet key ring.  A key that was supposed to open a small jewelry box or some other small wooden chest.  See the circular discoloration on the flesh?  Yes?  Clear evidence the man wore a ring.  Now look closely at the finger.  It is a man's middle finger.  The finger a man of some importance would decorate with a signet key ring.  So tell me, Gallus.  Did you find the wooden box the ring you removed from the dead hand of Spurius Latinius last night?"

            "I . . . uh . . . we found what . . . what was left of the box, tribune."

            "We . . . !" exploded the man standing beside him, wheeling around and stepping away from his comrade.  "I told you not to cut off that finger!  It was a trifling ring! It wasn't worth a penny!"

            "Silence!"

            The centurion, baton in hand, backhanded the man across the face viciously.  The man staggered to one side, holding his face with one hand, but came back to full attention.  Glaring at the man for one second the young officer thought about clubbing the man again but contained his anger and turned to face the tribune.

            "My sincerest, most humble, apologies sir.  I assure you when these two return to their barracks they will be severely dealt with!"

            Decimus shook his head negatively and placed a hand on the officer's arm.

            "Severity will quill no evils, centurion.  Discipline them you must.  Preferably in front of their comrades for all to take note of what will happen to those who cannot restrain themselves from petty theft.  But measure the punishment to the quality of the crime.  Otherwise you will generate more animosity than compliance among your men."

            Turning back to the ex-slave the balding, darkly tanned tribune lifted a hand up and told the man to give him the ring.  The man fumbled the ring out of a small leather pouch and dropped it into Decimus' hand.

            "Sir, if I may ask a question?"

            Decimus smiled, turning from the two ex-slaves and motioned them to leave at the same time.

            "You're wondering how I knew so quickly this nasty little deed had taken place last night.  Yes?"

            "Sir!" the centurion nodded, surprised, and wondering if the older officer could read his mind. "I mean . . . how?"

            Decimus half turned toward the young officer and smiled fatherly as he lifted a finger up and motioned him to follow his actions.  Kneeling in front of the stain on the grass beside the dust of the wagon trail he waited for the centurion to kneel beside him and then he pointed toward a set of tracks in the dust.

            "There are two different set of prints in the dust.  Here and here," he said pointing to one and then the other.  "Look closely.  The vigilies and the urban cohorts issue to their men the exact types of sandals as the army does for their men. They have a distinctive pattern on the soles of the leather.  Notice one set is that of someone wearing such footwear and the other isn't?"

            Once pointed out it was obvious for anyone to see plainly written in the soil.  With the addition of the military soled sandal extruding from underneath it mud.  As if Gallus had knelt in the rain to do his dastardly deed.

            "Precisely," Decimus nodded, smiling with quiet pleasure at seeing the younger officer see the evidence without the need to point it out to him. "A slight rain producing just enough mud to generate such a track.  But not so the other.  Meaning?"

            "The murderer must have committed his dead prior to the rain last night.  The rain began just a little after midnight.  So . . . that means the massacre mush have taken place sometime before!"

            "Very good," the older man said, coming to his feet and smiling. "Remember this small lesson, young man.  Every living creature uses their gift of sight to see world around us.  Our eyes gives us this wondrous sense of vision.  We see . . . but very few of us observe.  For an officer such as yourself the difference between seeing and observing could be all the difference in the world in keeping you and your men alive."

            "But . . . but how did you know in the beginning the dead man would have a signet key ring?  And this blood stain?  How did you know this was the precise stain to look at and not the other three?"

            Decimus laughed casually and glanced at Gnaeus who had come up to stand beside him.  The scowl on servant's face softened a bit but did not go away as he eyed the young centurion.

            "As to the knowledge of the key ring I confess I came owning such knowledge already.  I've been asked to look into this case and to bring it to a swift conclusion.  I was informed the patrician involved was carrying a small black wooden box engraved in ivory with a set of papers in it that were important.  Important to several groups of people.  That box and those papers my task is to find and obtain as well as to bring to justice those who killed Spurius Lavinius and his men.

            As to knowing to look at this stain and not the others?  I confess. I guessed!  Observation of men and their position in power over the years have led me to believe a man of Spurius' position would place him in the lead wagon.  He would be the first to step down form the wagon if confronted by ruffians.  I knew the man from the past, centurion.  I knew how arrogant and supremely confident he was toward those he considered his inferiors.  I'm sure Spurius thought he could bluster his way through this confrontation and continue on with his journey.  Unfortunately he sorely misread the situation and paid for it dearly."

            "Spurius Livinus?" the young centurion repeated, frowning and looking confused.  "I don't recall hearing this name before.  Who was he?"

            "An old, old, old villain my boy.  Very old . . . and very dangerous,"  Decimus answered softly. "But now we have a new plague upon us."

            "Someone perhaps even older and far more dangerous has struck and lifted from the victim's cold hands the box and its mysterious contents.  Someone far more dangerous I would think," the centurion answered quietly.

            Decimus Virlis glanced at the young centurion and frowned.  

            Indeed so, my boy.  Indeed so.

 

Lee Child's newest Jack Reacher novel is called A Wanted Man.

Good stuff, Maynard.  Really good stuff.

If you haven't discovered Jack Reacher you're missing something in your reading repertoire.  Reacher is a force to be reckoned with.  Ex-Army military police, the guy is 6'5 and all muscle.  But with a difference; he's all muscle with a lot of brains.

And he's got his own definition on what defines Justice.

And unique in another way.  He's a bum--in a somewhat classic sense of being an almost psychopathic loner.  He has no mailing address.  He has no home.  No car.  No friends to speak of.  Nothing to keep him in one place for too long.  His method of transportation is usually the Greyhound bus of hitch-hiking.

But  he has a genius in finding trouble.  The kind of trouble that involves guns, bodies, suspense, and a whiff of international danger.

Just the stuff I like to read, kiddo.

But what impresses me the most about this novel is it is Child's 17th volume in the series.  And it's damn good. (of course all of us can quibble here and there about the story--my little quibble is how it ends.  I don't think the FBI would be that generous to him.  But that's just me--you have to decide for yourself)

What I am trying to point out is that the writer has taken the time, effort, and loving care to make the novel work.  It's just as good as the last sixteen in the series.  That's important to remember.  Writing a series is tough sledding,  Guido. Ask any writer who does a series and they'll tell you as the series progresses along, the writing gets tougher.  Plots get harder to find.  The love for their character sometimes begins to fray around the edges.  (or worse; Sir Conan Doyle began to hate Sherlock Holmes so much he actually killed the SOB off permanently--or so he thought)

But this latest effort from the author is right on the mark.  Sharp, visceral, edgy; and a stumper.  You think you know what's going on . . . but really you don't.  

You may have noticed there is the movie, Jack Reacher, out in the theaters even as we speak.  Yep.  Same character.  Although . . . not really.   Tom Cruise is a very gifted actor and he may bring the essence of Jack Reacher's personality to the big screen.  But he ain't Jack Reacher.  Nevertheless I'll go see the movie and probably enjoy the hell out of it.

If you don't know who Jack Reacher is, it's time to go out and find him.  If you like good writing, good story plots, interesting characters, and slam-blam action, this is the real-deal.  (he's so good I introduced the character to my 15 year old grand daughter over the Christmas holidays.  It took about the first chapter to get her hooked.)

Read Jack Reacher and then come back and tell me what you think.  I'm curious to hear if you agree with me.  Or not.