“What books were they?”
“Nothing special. Just random books.”
“Did he often leave books lying on the floor?”
“Oh, no. He was quite meticulous,” the housekeeper said. “He always wanted books put away when he was done with them.”
“Can you remember which books they were?” the inspector asked.
“I don’t know I paid much attention.”
“Try to remember, Mrs. Broad,” Jackson said.
“Do you think he might have left them as a message?” the inspector asked.
“If they were out, they were out for a reason,” Jackson said.
Mrs. Broad scanned the bookcase and pulled out a cookbook. One-Pot Dishes.
“A cookbook?” The inspector sounded incredulous.
“And this one.”
“His own book, String Theory,” Jackson said.
“And this.”
“Moby Dick?”
“And some Russian book.”
“Anna Karenina? This makes no sense.” The inspector shook his head. “They must have fallen during a struggle.”
“Oh, and this.” Mrs. Broad put Northanger Abbey on the table.
“They have nothing in common,” the inspector said. “Jane Austen and String Theory?”
Jackson stared at them. “What order were they in on the floor?”
The housekeeper thought hard, then arranged them on the table. Jackson wrote down the titles. “Look, sir,” he said, excitedly. “He’s named his killer.”
The inspector read:
Moby Dick
Anna Karenina
String Theory
One-Pot Dishes
Northanger Abbey
“And?” the inspector asked.
“Mason.” He pointed to the first letters. “Donald Mason, Dr. Woodson’s arch rival. He wanted that Nobel Prize.”
Rhys Bowen is the New York Times best-selling author of two historical mystery series: the Molly Murphy Mysteries, set in early 1900s New York City, and the lighter Royal Spyness stories, featuring a penniless minor royal in 1930s England. Her books have been nominated for every major mystery award and have won thirteen to date, including Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Awards. A transplanted Brit, Rhys now divides her time between California and Arizona.
GET THE CONFESSION
* * *
* * *
Jay Brandon
It was a small room, and he was a small guy. I didn’t have to do anything to make him feel trapped except be in there with him, towering over him. I just had to put a hand on his shoulder and ease him down into the chair at the table, cutting off most of the room without trying.
“You know what to do,” Lieutenant Owsley had said to me a minute ago, and I did. Get the confession. Make sure the details were right. Details only someone who’d been in the apartment would know. Owsley had let me skim the initial report, and there were details enough. Pretty little secretary, neat little apartment. Nicely laid out kitchen, lunch for two, cooking things still on the stove, a simple meal. And the bed nicely made in the bedroom only a few feet away. Her lunch date hadn’t shown up, apparently. This burglar had. He hadn’t expected to find anyone home, and by the time he left no one was. Just the pretty little secretary on the kitchen floor, her neatness spoiled by the pool of blood around her.
“You know her?” Owsley asked.
I shook my head.
“Worked in the building right across the street.”
“Maybe I’ve seen her then.” I shrugged.
Owsley had said something else to me too, just before I’d gone into the interview room. “We need this.” He’d stretched to whisper in my ear. I’d just nodded. The code was clear: he was sure, intuitively or whatever, this was the guy, but there might not be enough evidence to convict him without a good confession.
He said something else, just before he left. “We’ll be down the hall. Out of earshot.”
The suspect knew what that meant, too.
We had more modern interview rooms, but this called for old school: scarred metal table, cold metal chair, outdated equipment. I started the interview a little differently, fiddling with the recording equipment and then saying, “Ah, the hell with it.” When I turned back to the guy, he knew. We weren’t recording this session. I just looked at him for a long minute, watching sweat appear on his balding forehead. He wiped his mouth, looking up at me from the edge of the chair. “You were there,” I said. He shook his head. “You think we don’t know, just because you wiped the place clean? That shows what a pro you are. You weren’t so careful when you hit another apartment in the same building a month ago. And somebody saw you there last week.”
That wasn’t in the report, but I figured it was the detail most likely to get a reaction, and I was right. His eyes got big as open windows. “I was just there looking at an empty apartment. To rent. Felons gotta live someplace too.”
I just let him think about that bad story while I began writing his confession. He looked over my shoulder. “I didn’t. I didn’t hit her. She hit her head on the countertop.” I backtracked in the confession to say she’d slipped, smiling inside. Hit head on the table edge. The burglar wasn’t contradicting anything now. I slipped in the perfect details: lavendar panties, the gold watch from her jewelry drawer.
Owsley came in to take it from me. Looked at the blank signature line, then at me. I just looked back. The guy was pressed back against the wall now that there were two cops in the room. He’d sign.
Owsley nodded as he read. “Table edge. Good detail. He said countertop, but you’re right, it was the table edge. We found blood. Sure you didn’t know her? That’s funny, because I saw the two of you at lunch one day. Little out-of-the-way Mexican place. I started to come over and say hi, but it looked like you were having a pretty intense discussion.”
I sensed people on the other side of the mirrored glass. Started thinking, didn’t say anything.
“So I thought of you, especially after I saw the gift she’d bought. It was in the bedroom. Did you not get that far?” His partner came in, handed him a large gift box, kept his eyes on me. Owsley opened it. A robe. Plush. Burgundy. I looked down at it, rubbed the rich texture of the fabric, and saw my initials on the pocket.
“Nice robe,” Owsley said. “Must have set her back half a week’s pay. A girl trying to hold on to her man, when he was ready to dump her. Or wanting more than he was willing to give her, breaking up his marriage and costing him half his pension.”
Owsley sighed. “Or maybe she just loved him and wanted to do something nice for him. The initials weren’t enough. Neither was the table set for two. She was expecting somebody, not a burglar. But now we’ve got enough, I think. Details that weren’t in the report. The table edge. The fact the watch was gold. The report doesn’t mention either of those.”
I was the biggest guy in the room, but there were two of them. Now three, counting the burglar. And we were on DVD. Now that I was paying attention, I could hear the faint hum of the backup system.
Lieutenant Owsley draped the robe over my shoulders. She must’ve gotten it at a big and tall men’s shop, because it hung nicely on my shoulders and fell almost to my ankles.
“Nice fit,” Owsley said.
Jay Brandon is the award-winning author of Fade the Heat, Executive Privilege, the Chris Sinclair series of legal thrillers, and more than a dozen other novels. His story “A Jury of His Peers” appeared in The Best American Mystery Stories 2010. A pair of new novels by Jay have recently been published, The Jetty (2012) and The Real History (February 2013). Visit him at JayBrandon.com.
PIECE OF CAKE
* * *
* * *
R. Thomas Brown
Hap Callahan walked through the saloon doors of Cowboy Coffee, shaking his head at the lassos in the logo. Seemed every place he went these days tried to make you feel like you were at a theme park, not next door to a James Avery in yet another strip mall filling up suburban spac
e and giving the local commuters a place to spend their money.
He eyed the caffeine cowboy who labored under a flimsy hat. “I’ll have a cappuccino.” He glanced down at the rows of trucked-in sweets. “And that thing with the little marshmallows on top.”
“A cappuccino and a lolly, that’s eight bucks even.”
Hap handed over a ten. Waved off the change. He turned away. Scanned the room. Holding the treat on a stick in front of his face. Dumbest fucking way to meet someone. Ever. In the corner, a jittery little man made eye contact.
Hap walked among the tables and couches, past the bar with saddle seats, and took the chair opposite Pete. “Looks like you’ve had too much coffee.”
“Fuck you. I’ve been waiting an hour.”
Hap checked his watch. A nice Tag he took off a guy who couldn’t dodge punches. “Did you remember to set your clock back, asshole?”
Pete shook his head. Not in response, more like a tick. “You got it?”
Two seconds and Hap was already tired of the guy. “Sure. You?”
“Yeah. I got the pics with me.”
“Memory too?” Digital pictures could be anywhere. Everywhere. Made his solution attractive to clients.
“Yeah. All of it. It’s right here.” He tapped his lap.
Hap took a sip. The drinks were always too damned hot. “Pete. I’m gonna tell you something.”
Pete shuddered. “Didn’t come for a lecture.”
“No. But you’re gonna listen anyway.” A small sip. “Blackmail’s a bad deal, Pete. People with enough money to make it worthwhile usually have enough money to make problems go away.”
“Is that a threat?”
Hap rolled his eyes. “Just advice. My guess is you got lucky. Took some pics and thought you’d make a quick score.” He took another sip.
“So?”
“So. Look at you. You’re a mess. The stress. The fear. Better for you if you give it up. Walk away.” Hap fiddled with the ball on a stick.
“Yeah? Or what?”
“See, Pete. My client wants to play along. Most of them do. Just want it to go away quietly. I do what I’m paid to do.” A long sip. “I’d rather hunt you down. Find you at night. Alone. Or with someone, I don’t care. End it all. No more threats, payments, worries.”
Pete swallowed before trying to act tough. “Thanks for the advice. Now. The money.”
Hap pulled an envelope from his jacket. “This is the spot. The choice. You take the money, and it doesn’t go well from here. Give me the stuff. Leave now. No money. No pics. No trouble.”
“Money.”
Hap sighed. “Your choice. Here ya go.”
Pete started to open it.
Hap slapped his hand. “Not in here, moron. Take it out back. Count it there.”
“What if it’s not all there?”
Hap sat back. “Keep the pics until you count.” He spread his arms across the back of the booth. “Come back when you’re done.”
Pete furrowed his eyebrows. “What if I just run?”
“Then I’ll get to do things my way. Either way, I win.”
Pete stood and left out the back. Hap took another drink and twirled the frosted ball on a stick. “Weird shit.”
A man sat across from him. Handed him an envelope. “Thanks, Hap. Finding the guy made this a lot easier.”
Hap nodded. “Always does. Anonymity makes people brave. Being found makes them stupid.” He finished his drink and set it down before a sound like a car backfiring rang out from behind the mall. Hap grinned and placed the envelope in his jacket pocket.
“You’ll bring the pics by the office?”
“As soon as I make sure he didn’t have any copies anywhere else.”
“Thanks again, Hap. You really are the best.” The man left the shop.
Hap took a bite of the ball. “Piece of cake.”
THIS STORY WAS FIRST PUBLISHED IN SHOTGUN HONEY.
R. Thomas Brown writes crime fiction set in Texas. His novel, Hill Country, was published by Snubnose Press in 2012. You can find his thoughts on fiction and other matters, as well as information on his short fiction and upcoming novels, at RThomasBrown.blogspot.com.
THUG CITY
* * *
* * *
Ken Bruen
Their latest gig was as follows: drive at a slow speed through pedestrian areas beside, preferably, an older person, chuck a bottle of dirty water on the poor bastard, rev the engine, and then speed off, leaving the old codger on the brink of coronary.
Oh, the fun.
The rush.
The bravado.
The duo: dumb-ass so-called students of engineering at NUIG, all of nineteen years apiece, named
Dolan
Brady.
Way too fucking cool for first names. Dolan was almost a good-looking kid, if he had had an ounce of feeling, a trainee psycho who got the rush from others’ pain. Brady was just the apprentice moron, attached to any ship that provided color and beer money. Their latest wheeze was a plastic bag of red paint, handled delicately, to be lobbed at some prize suspect. The anticipation had them respectively hard.
The Red Letter Night had arrived, and they’d prepared, like dude, get seriously wasted first. That they spoke in quasi-American hip-hop only added to their irritating ration. Eight Red Bull—yup, Red Bull, the irony! A bottle of cheap vodka—the working stiff’s cocaine—and a few spliffs, and they were good to
“Roll.”
And they did.
Dillon was sixty-five, a little stooped from an old gunshot wound in his lower back; that sucker still reared up. Ten years in a European jail had tamed his wilder excesses—that is, his hair-trigger temper. Tamed, as in rationed.
Sparingly.
He had hung on to a combat jacket from those wild days on the Ormeau Road, and phew, cruising down the falls, bullets to backside, oblivious to all but The Cause.
Walking.
Now, slow to slowest as he remembered his dead mates. Returning to Galway he wanted only some peace, some aged Jameson maybe, and three pints of the black, stretched over four hours.
Stretched over the meager euros they called a pension. Those walks, he’d think…
“One good jolt afore I go, to rock one more glorious time.”
He’d reached the top of Eyre Square, his daily ritual, one more kilometer before he headed for the pub and half-arsed ease.
The car was turning by the Meryck Hotel, about two minutes from him. Dolan was getting angry. Not a single person in sight. Jesus!
Everybody hanging with some other fucking body. Brady said,
“Ah shite, the paint is leaking. We got to get rid of it.”
Dolan saw the hunched man, shouted,
“An old fuck. Look, see the bollocks in the combat jacket? Move, for Christ’s sake, before he crosses the road.”
They moved.
An old woman in her fragile eighties got off the Salt Hill bus, on the blind side of the car. Dolan roared,
“Sling it.”
The bag sailing high, suspended for one glorious moment, then exploding over the lady, like a prayer gone so badly wrong. Covering like a spectrum of blood, her frail small body, a tiny cry as she collapsed in a coronary cloud.
The car desperately vying for balance, nigh losing it, then righted but straightened, then roaring off.
Dillon, momentarily stunned, then recovering, his eyes fixed on the license plate—old habit. He bent down, tended to the lady, his mind already in the cold place. A flick, a light, the years-old spark about to turn.
Burn.
To burning.
A blaze when the ambulance came. Told the guard who arrived:
Saw nothing.
Know nothing.
Thought:
The Sig.
Daily primed, like an exercise in hope.
Did go to the pub, had only the Jameson, two doubles, no Guinness, no bloated feeling required.
Just sleekness and fire.
&nb
sp; How many places could two idiots hide? Found them close to one in the morning. A flat off the canal, top floor, the sound of Thin Lizzy bouncing off the water. The dead car parked sloppily outside. Dead from the moment he focused on the number plate.
He stormed in, put a bullet in the sound system, killing Phil Lynott mid Whiskey in the Jar. Still moving, lashed Dolan across his face with the butt of the Sig, whirled, put a hard kick to Brady’s knee. As the duo
Moaned
Groaned
On the floor.
He took a Miller, drained half, said,
“Guys, here’s the deal.”
They stared at him, stared at the gun. He said,
“The old lady isn’t going to make it, so one of you isn’t going to make it.”
He paused.
Everybody loves a dramatic interval, then,
“I’m going to…as you dudes say…waste…one of you.”
Let them digest that, finished the brew, said,
“So, you guys choose, or…I’ll kill you both.”
Dolan looked at Brady, thought,
“Never liked this eejit.”
Brady thought,
“Uh-oh.”
Ken Bruen received a PhD in metaphysics, taught English in Africa, Japan, Southeast Asia, and South America, then became a crime novelist. His Jack Taylor series has had worldwide acclaim, and his novels have been nominated for numerous awards, including an Edgar Allan Poe Award for The Guards. His novels Blitz and London Boulevard have served as the basis for feature films. His most recent Jack Taylor novel is Headstone.
WHAT YOU WISH FOR
* * *
* * *
C.E. Lawrence
“Make a wish,” said the genie.
Marie crossed her arms. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, come on.” He beamed genially. “You dragged me out of the bottle—you might as well use your wish.”
He was big and blubbery, rotund and round-faced, just like the illustrations from her childhood copy of Aladdin and the Lamp. His skin was the color of polished brass. He wore loose-fitting yellow silk pants, a tiny vest barely covered his fleshy chest, and a wide, multicolored belt was wound around his enormous belly. His head was completely bald, the skin smooth as river stone.
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