He had been in the men’s room for a while. Trish glanced at the Guinness-issued wall clock for the third time—“After work, it’s Guinness Time!”—and was about to get up, when the bathroom door creaked open.
A different man emerged from the restroom. Continue reading
Part one can be read here.
He sat on the stool for a time, sipping at his beer, otherwise quiet. Trish stayed at her end of the bar, lost in her crossword. She checked how much beer remained of his pint every few minutes, but he seemed low maintenance as customers go. The jukebox was on, but turned low, so the bar was actually pretty quiet. Trish heard the man place his beer back on the bar, a creak from the stool, and the sound of Jeremy’s boots on the wooden floorboards. He walked towards her.
“Hey, uh, where’s yer bathroom?” Continue reading
Murphy’s Pub is a pub much like many others in New York City. Queens, specifically. A brick building, standing on a corner, with a face of molded wood. The molding appears black on this cloudy night, but in the light it runs a veneered pine green. With a pine green door. Gold handle. One bay window cut to the left of the door. Two Budweiser neon lights. White shutters frame the window. Continue reading
He waited in an unremarkable car. An unremarkable man on an unremarkable street. Seated in the driver’s seat was a man of incredible patience, the payoff enough to quiet his strong will to move. He’d been waiting for what would seem ages to one less inclined to sit and wait.
Should be soon, he thought.
The man struck a match, lit the cigarette. Continue reading
The stairs were steel, and rusted from years of neglect. A waist-high railing, painted a chipped brown, snaked up from the ground, with patches of the same rust. When Duke reached the landing, he froze.
“Anyone been up here?” he yelled.
It sounded like hee-yuh.
“No sir” Morales, the less-shaken of the rooks.
“Send up a tech.”
Footprints were visible in the dust that coated the landing. Heavy tread, some sort of work boot. He scanned the rest of the landing, looking for something. Anything. Before he found it, the crime scene tech had reached the landing.
She was pretty. And blond. Duke put out his right hand. Continue reading
Part i is here.
Their shift was three hours in before the Valentine’s Day love haze began to dissipate. Cops walking the night beat had found a body in an abandoned warehouse out in College Point. Woman. Raped. Beaten. Bound. Gagged. Shot. Each indignity spanned the spectrum of depravity, all inflicted upon one poor woman. An execution. Continue reading
The phone call woke him up.
“Detective Howell?” It was Sam.
“Sorry to wake you sir, but I, uh, figured you would want to know before anyone else.”
“What do you got Sam?” asked the Duke. “Suspense ain’t my bag.”
To this day, he couldn’t believe what he heard on that phone.
TWO WEEKS AGO, the Duke liked being a detective more than anything else in life. This was fortunate, as he lived in a dingy little apartment, drove a musty old Buick, and had no close family. They were all dead. And gone. Continue reading