Exclusive Excerpt: No Good Deed by Michael Rupured

No Good Deed by Michael Rupured

A Philip Potter Story

On Christmas Eve in 1966, Philip Potter, a kind-hearted Smithsonian curator, wraps up his last-minute shopping. Meanwhile, James, his lover of several years, takes his own life back in their home. Unaware of what awaits him, Philip drops off gifts at a homeless shelter, an act of generosity that will later make him a suspect in the murder of a male prostitute.

Following James’s shocking death, two men enter Philip’s life—and both drive yellow Continentals. One of them, though, is a killer, with the blood of at least six hustlers on his hands. And both are hiding something.

As Philip is about to discover, no good deed goes unpunished.



Chapter 3

Philip glanced at his watch and wondered where the time had gone. After dropping off all but the radio for James at the shelter, he’d popped into the toy department at the Sears & Roebuck store to see about last-minute gifts for Thad. Checking out took longer than he’d expected, but he didn’t want to be rude to the helpful clerk. The glares of the shoppers who waited behind him hadn’t dampened his holiday spirit.

As snow crunched beneath his black rubbers, Philip contemplated what awaited him at home. James was… excitable. No matter how his father had responded, his lover’s reaction would be extreme. If the old man had written James a check, he’d be dancing on the ceiling. If not, well…. If not, then Philip would do what he could to cheer him up.

From the day they’d met, Philip had been driven by a desire to guide and protect this rare and beautiful gift to the human race. How someone could cast such an exquisite creature into the streets baffled him. The boy’s father committing such a heinous and disloyal act infuriated him. Philip had been only nine when his own dad had died. He had few memories of him, but those he had were wonderful—so much so he wasn’t sure which were real and which were only figments of his imagination.

In addition to his dancing ability, James possessed a superlative gift for embellishment and a knack for making ordinary events sound either much better or worse than they were. Although entertaining at parties, living with the drama was sometimes a challenge. Tomorrow would either be the absolute best Christmas James had ever had… or the worst. If only Philip could influence the outcome. Knowing it all came down to James’s father—a man not known for doing the right thing—made Philip uneasy.


Streets that were overflowing with traffic and last-minute shoppers earlier were now almost deserted. Progress was slow thanks to packed snow on the sidewalks. Whether James was jubilant or sorrowful, Philip didn’t want him to be alone on Christmas Eve any longer than he had to be. Solitude and James didn’t mix well.

When Philip got to the apartment, he’d listen to what James had to say about the meeting with his father. He suspected he already knew, but he pushed that thought from his mind, hoping he hadn’t nurtured it into being. Think positive.

Step by careful step, he made his way down Twenty-First Street toward G Street. He winced as the scream of a siren from a passing ambulance filled his head. More sirens wailed in the distance. The hair on his neck prickled. Though he hadn’t been to Mass since second grade and had never considered himself a religious man, he crossed himself and said a quick prayer for the unfortunate victim’s family and friends as the sirens converged at a location a few blocks ahead of him.

He rounded the corner onto G Street and saw that the uproar revolved around his apartment building. Anxiety about James hardened into a knot of tension that made breathing difficult. The icy sidewalk prevented him from running, but he picked up his pace as best he could and hurried to the building.

An ambulance and half a dozen police cars blocked the street. The red, amber, and blue flashing lights on the snow-covered evergreens reminded him of the flocked Christmas tree he’d seen at the shelter. Bystanders huddled together in small groups, talking amongst themselves.

As he passed the first group, he heard a woman say, “We were watching television when I heard a gunshot right outside our door.”

Another faceless voice reached his ear. “…took his own life, and here on Christmas Eve….”

Philip stopped on the sidewalk, three steps below the landing. A uniformed officer blocked the entrance to his apartment building. “Excuse me, sir. I live here. May I come in?”

The officer gave him a quick once-over and asked, “Which apartment?” Darkness and the flashing lights made it hard to see his face. A single bushy eyebrow extended almost from ear to ear beneath the visor of his hat. Philip wanted to ask if he’d ever heard of tweezers.

“I live in apartment 203 with my roommate.”

“Roommate?” The giant brow furrowed, the officer’s expression changing. Philip detected derision in his voice.

“Yes, my roommate, James Walker. Have you seen him?”

The bushy fringe arched as the officer’s lips curled into a sneer. “Yeah, I’ve seen him. He’s laying up in that hallway with a bullet in his head.”

Philip heard the words but couldn’t quite glean the meaning. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I said your faggot boyfriend blew his brains out.”

Understanding struck Philip as the officer disappeared up the stairs. His knees buckled and the snow-covered sidewalk rushed toward him. The last thing he saw was the box containing the fire engine red transistor radio he’d purchased for James tumbling down the sidewalk and into the street.



Exclusive Excerpt: Dying for a Thrill (a Mike King Mystery) by Mark Zubro


Wednesday 7:21 P.M.

The door to the outer office burst open. The man’s eyes danced from me to Duncan to Georgia. The stranger’s overcoat flapped open revealing red smears on a bright yellow hooded sweatshirt. The man swayed, clutched the edge of the door, gasped, pulled in a huge breath, and shrieked, “They’re trying to kill me!”

He collapsed.

Not the usual way clients introduced themselves at the Mike King Detective Agency. When they get to my office, they usually aren’t hysterical. Maybe frustrated, often put out, likely annoyed, even all the way up the scale to totally pissed off and willing to do anything or almost anything to get even. Private detectives deal with a whole lot more pissed off than panic-stricken.

He was the first client who thrust himself through the door and then passed out.

The three of us were working late, finishing notes on a case involving blackmail among some super rich gay men with summer cottages in the Hamptons and winter homes in the south of France. We’d hoped that blackmailing gay people, for whatever reason, had become passé. We were wrong, but we’d solved the case and some bad guys were in jail.

The three of us rushed forward. I grabbed a cushion from the couch for his head. Georgia took a carafe of water from the tea tray, and hunkered down next to me on the floor. Duncan joined us and helped cradle the man’s head.

We leaned over the new guy. He was breathing, and my fingertips on his carotid artery confirmed that his pulse was pulsing. The left lens of his black, horn-rimmed glasses was cracked. Duncan lifted the man’s head far enough so I could place the cushion under it.

Duncan pointed to the smears on the yellow hoody. “Blood?”

I nodded. “Most likely.”

The hood of the stranger’s sweatshirt had twisted and hid half his face. I pushed it back and then removed his hat. I realized the dark smears on his gloves and coat were blood just like that which showed on his sweatshirt. No blood on or around his head. A cursory feel over his brush-cut blond hair gave no indication of out-of-the ordinary bumps.

Dying for a Thrill Front Cover 2 14 2016 b

His head lolled. I unwrapped the scarf from around his heavily muffled neck to be sure he wasn’t inadvertently strangling himself and to check for other injuries.

He looked bedraggled, wet, and exhausted, as if someone had ripped and torn his Army war surplus clothes then washed and dried them a thousand times without using fabric softener. Then the clothes would be stored in a heap on someone’s floor until picked up to be worn. He smelled like he’d been putting on extra deodorant to cover not having bathed in a several days, not the most pleasant combination. Georgia asked, “Is this another one of your cataclysmic corpse contacts biting the dust?”

I said, “I’ve never met him.”

Georgia said, “Wouldn’t be the first one.” Georgia De’Jungle was one of my top operatives. “That’s Georgia De’Jungle with an E,” she always added. Georgia was the most accomplished drag queen on the North American continent. She was my disguise expert. Her ability to disguise herself was unknown. That’s how good she was. If she was legendary or unrivaled, that would mean people would know what she was up to. I paid her handsomely to take care of some of the most delicate work for the firm. At the moment she wore an evening gown designed by Pasta Fagioli, the pseudonym of an ethnically challenged Chicago designer she favored. The designer was so exclusive, he didn’t do fashion shows. Just designed for select clients.

Besides helping us finish our end-of-case details, Georgia had been preparing to go out for her evening’s work.

Duncan asked me, “Didn’t you have a conquest who keeled over? In Berlin I think it was. Last year? When that gay ambassador from Lichtenberg was kidnapped and the relatives who didn’t trust the government wanted you to save him? You seduced one of the kidnappers in the back room of some leather museum in Berlin, wasn’t it? And that guy keeled over?”

“He didn’t ‘keel over’. He wanted to be in that position. He kept repeating, ‘please, daddy’. And there is no Lichtenberg.” I leaned back. “And that’s not important at the moment.” While I continued to monitor this guy’s pulse, I added, “They don’t keel over. They just don’t work out.” I examined the man’s face and then repeated. “I don’t know this guy.”

Georgia gave me her best smirk. “Dead’s a pretty for sure sign they didn’t work out.”

I said, “This one is breathing.”

Georgia said, “You’re sure he’s not another one of your conquests gone bad?”

I said, “I’m sure.”

Even in the most outré circumstances, they often teased me about my lack of success at dating. This qualified maybe among the top five in outré comment moments. And they didn’t all die.

Seldom, in fact.

The prostrate man continued to breathe. I could smell the slightest whiff of Georgia’s subtle perfume. I cradled the guy’s head and upper torso. Bits of melting snow dripped onto the floor from his bulky overcoat.

Next, I eased off the heavy outer garments. As I undid each item, Georgia and Duncan helped me rearrange his body. Then Georgia took each item and stretched it out to dry on the couch.

The guy’s skin-tight jeans had no smears. The logo on the longsleeve

T-shirt taut on his gaunt frame read “Frodo Lives” in

fourteen point type. Hard to see at almost any distance. I liked

him for the message.

His running shoes were inappropriate for the weather and

were soaked through to his sodden socks. Georgia placed these

four items close to a heating vent.

I lifted the T-shirt from his emaciated and inert frame. No wounds on his torso. After examining him I said, “No obvious wounds. The blood must be somebody else’s.”

Duncan asked, “Heart attack, stroke, plain old faint?”

I took out my cell phone, punched in 9-1-1.

Duncan checked the guy’s coat pockets. He muttered, “No weapons.” No need to take chances about a possibly armed intruder even though he was incapacitated at the moment. Duncan pulled out a wallet from the left back pocket of the man’s skinny jeans, keys and a phone from his right front pocket.

I told the emergency operator where I was. She said with the rising storm and all the accidents in the city, it might be a while before anyone could respond.

“No,” I said in answer to her question, “there doesn’t seem to be any immediate danger.” She suggested I try to get him to the nearest hospital a few blocks north and a block or two east. I hung up.

Duncan handed me the wallet, a tattered black billfold with five crisp one hundred dollar bills and a couple ones.

His Illinois driver’s license said his name was Jamie Vincek.

The man’s eyelids fluttered then opened. “Who? What?”

He snatched his wallet from me, and his keys and phone from Duncan’s hands. He shoved the accoutrements back into his pockets and then tried to stand, but he faltered and fell back. I caught him before his head thunked onto the floor. He shook his head but forbore to rise and stayed in my arms.

He saw my phone which was still in my hand. He swatted at it. I kept it up and out of his reach.

“No calls.” His voice was just short of another shriek.

I held him in my arms and tried to be soothing. “Shush. Hush. We need to get you help.”

His second attempt to scramble to his feet succeeded. The three of us stood up as well. He gazed down at his unshod feet, then caught sight of his shoes and socks drying next to the air vent. I held out an arm toward Vincek. He staggered two steps to the wall and propped himself against it with his left hand. He was managing on his own for the moment.

Between great panting gasps for breath, he said, “Please, no phone calls. Please stop!” His shrieking had changed to pleading. I put my phone away.

I asked, “Who’s trying to kill you?”

He glanced wildly around the room. His eyes came to rest on “You’re Mike King?”


“I’m Jamie Vincek.”

Beyond what I’d seen on his driver’s license, the name meant nothing to me. He looked at me as if I should recognize it. With the index finger on his trembling right hand, he pointed at the New York Times on top of Duncan’s desk. “It’s in there already!”

I kept my voice low and soothing. “Why don’t we step into my office where you can tell me how I can help you?”

“Is it safe here?” he demanded.

I said, “It’s as safe as anywhere, I suppose.”

I placed a hand on his elbow and steered him toward the inner office.

Georgia said, “I’m late for this evening’s gig.” She was performing undercover as a torch singer. She did a pretty good Bessie Smith. I didn’t think there’d be much of crowd in this weather, but she was a trouper. She left.

Vincek responded to the slight pressure on his elbow by moving forward. I picked up the copy of the Times as I helped propel him toward my office.

Wednesday 7:28 P.M.

I got him settled in a comfy client chair. Duncan placed a glass and a bottle of water next to him on the end table. He helped Vincek off with his T-shirt. It had a few red smears of it on the end of each sleeve. Duncan said, “I’ll get you a replacement for that.” Duncan put the T-shirt on a towel on the couch on the right side of the room. He left and closed the door.

I settled behind my old teacher’s desk that I got at a sale at a failed university.

I said, “You have blood on your clothes, and it doesn’t seem to be yours.”

“I’m in trouble.”

“The bleeding person would seem to be in more trouble.”

Tears sprang to his eyes. “He’s dead. I held my friend in my arms as he died. Blake is dead. I loved him. I could never tell him that when he was alive. Now I never will.” His blank stare settled into the middle distance like a character in a nineteenth century British novel. Tears leaked down his cheeks. I took a box of tissues out of the top drawer of the desk and held it out to him. He took several and wiped his cheeks.

“What happened?” I asked.

He picked up the newspaper and pointed to a front page

article above the fold. The headline read, Spies Convicted. “It’s this.”

I hadn’t read the article, hadn’t followed the case. I glanced at

the first few paragraphs and got the who, what, why, and when

on a conviction in a New York courtroom of an international

spy ring.

He said, “They’ve been pressuring the defendants to name

names to get themselves lighter sentences. See.” He turned the

paper to the full-page spread on page eighteen. At the bottom

was a list of people the government was looking for. He pointed

to the final paragraph. “I’m on that list.”

He tossed the paper on the desk top, pointed to the relevant

paragraph, then leaned his head back in the chair. He thrust his

legs wide apart revealing a bulge of some heft in his tight jeans.

He might or might not work out, but his muscles were taut. As

for his crotch, either he was a shower or something about the

situation turned him on. Other than that, he didn’t look sexually

stimulated, more like he might pass out again any second. He

wiped his hands across his face as if trying to waken himself. He

said, “I haven’t slept in forty-one hours.”

“Why not?”

“I’m scared. I’m frightened out of my mind.”

While I scanned the rest of the article, he looked at me and

drew several deep breaths.

When I finished, I said, “The trial was in New York. This is

today’s paper so the conviction must have happened yesterday.

You have blood on you, and you’re here in Chicago which has a

building blizzard. Are you an international spy?”


“Why do they want to talk to you?”

“They think I’m a spy. They have no proof I’m a spy.”

I asked, “How did the investigators in New York get your


“I’m not sure. There’s no way they could have. That’s what

scares me.” He pointed at the paper. “My name in that article is

the first I’ve heard about it.”

“As far as I can tell from the article, it looks like states attorneys

and police, probably the FBI and Homeland Security and maybe

even the CIA as well would all want to talk to you. Shouldn’t you

be consulting an attorney?”

“They don’t want to talk to me. They want me dead. This

whole trial was a sham to get me.”

I couldn’t tell if he was paranoid, crazy, or frightened out of

his mind, or in what combination all of those feelings might be

coursing through his brain. Nor could I tell how close he was to

dealing rationally with reality. Maybe he was lying through his

teeth. Or telling the truth.

I didn’t even have proof he was the guy who the paper

said officials wanted to talk to. The driver’s license had looked

real, but I like to confirm things. On my second case, I hadn’t

confirmed some basic information, and an emaciated fourteenyear-

old orphan boy in Budapest came within an inch of slitting

my throat.

The blood on Vincek’s clothes was fairly convincing as

proof that he was in some kind of trouble. Why go through

the elaborate ruse of smearing his own clothes with, presumably,

someone else’s blood? Unless something truly out of the ordinary

was happening.

“If this was the first you’ve heard of it, how do you know

they were out to get you?”

“I’m a leader of an all-powerful group of secret gay hackers.”

“How does being all-powerful work?”

He gazed at me. “Huh?”

“Well, if you’re all-powerful, I can’t imagine you’d be passing

out on my carpet.” I pointed at the paper. “Or be in trouble

with the law or at least be someone the law wants to talk to. If

they don’t think you’re guilty of something yourself, they must

think you know something that would help them. What is it you


Duncan knocked and came in with a sweatshirt I recognized

from his gym bag. It had the name of Mokena University on the

front. He handed it to Vincek who fumbled with it and dropped


“You’re sure you’re not hurt?” Duncan asked as he picked

up the sweatshirt. Vincek stood up, and Duncan helped him

shrug into the sweatshirt. It hung to mid-thigh, six inches below

Vincek’s fingertips. In it he looked fifteen.

Vincek reiterated, “The blood isn’t mine, but my muscles hurt

like hell.” Vincek had winced as he lifted his arms.

Vincek was skinny, maybe five seven, and maybe all of

a hundred pounds, if he kept his heavy overcoat on. Duncan

gave him a washcloth to wipe remnants of blood off. Vincek

was perhaps the hairiest ginger I’d ever seen with a thick mat

of reddish-brown fur from his neck to the ribbon of Andrew

Christian underwear sticking up from his jeans. While his T-shirt

was off, I also saw dark purple bruises that spread from an inch

above his left nipple to his shoulder.

Vincek plopped back into the client chair. Duncan left.

I asked, “Who was your friend that died in your arms?”

“I am in so much trouble. You’ve got to help me.”

“I’ve pretty much got that part. In trouble with whom?”

Sometimes with new clients I use the correct interrogative

pronoun. Doesn’t impress as many of them as much as I’d like.

I try my best.

Duncan returned with hot chocolate and then left again

closing the door after himself.

Duncan is a treasure. He used to play basketball for Mokena

University. Still played pick-up games at the local gym. He’s

now a grad student at the University of Chicago who should be

indulging in nuclear physics, not keeping my filing and accounts

in order. He says he likes the work. He’s been with me five years.

Vincek sipped then answered my question. “Everybody.”

His body began to tremble. As he put the cup of hot chocolate

down on the end table, he almost sloshed the contents onto the

antimacassar Duncan keeps on the arm of the chair.

Vincek clutched his arms around his torso and breathed

deeply for a few moments then he took off his glasses and

wiped his face again. He tapped on the lens that was broken

and then muttered, “I’ve got another pair in my backpack.” His

head swiveled around the room, his eyes coming to rest on mine.

“Where’s my backpack?”

“There was no backpack. Was there something in it that you

didn’t want to lose?”

He breathed deeply for several moments then said, “Nothing

that can’t be replaced.” He gave me a suspicious look. “You didn’t

root through it and take it?”

I said, “I looked through your wallet, got your ID.”

“You looked in my wallet!”

“You passed out on my floor.”

“We have lots of IDs, but that one is real.”

“You and this gay geek group were meeting in Chicago. Why?”

“We meet all around the world. We even have a few safe havens

on ships outside the territorial waters near various countries. We

don’t stay in one place.”

“And why did you come to me?”

“I don’t know which of my friends I can trust. We know

you’re a private eye and you’re gay. A combination of both is rare.

You’ve been in the papers. We follow all the gay news. Google

gay private eye, real ones, not the ones from literature, and your

name comes out at the top of the page. At least among the set

that might need protection or a private eye, your name always

comes up first.”

I guess I didn’t need to advertise. I said, “I get the gay stuff.

What do you need with a private eye?”

“We’re nerds, computer geeks. You’re an action guy. We need


Even with him swimming in Duncan’s sweatshirt, I could see

small patches of damp from sweat beginning to leak at various

folds in the cloth. He put his broken glasses back on and peered

at me. It was a sad face, with long eyelashes, and dark brown eyes,

but kind of handsome in an off-beat way, and skewed as I tried

to catch a left eye that was made off kilter by the broken lens.

He stared at me a few moments, despair in his slumped

shoulders and down-turned mouth. I glanced back at the article

for a moment then asked again, “Why didn’t you stay with Blake?”

“I don’t have much time. The ones who killed him were after

me as well. He died, and then I ran. They may have followed me.

I don’t feel safe here. Is there somewhere safe we can go?”

“Where would you feel safe?”

“I’ve got no time for this. We have to get out of here.” He

leapt back to his feet and swayed. “Nowhere is safe.” He was

back to just short of shriek level. He switched from looking near

passing out to raging paranoia in an instant. Maybe he was just a

nut job with someone else’s blood on him. Or a better actor than

I’d ever seen.

Or did he kill someone?

I said, “If nowhere is safe, why do we have to get out of

here? If your reasoning is correct, here would be as unsafe as


He stared at me with his mouth agape as if logic were not his

strong suit.

“Is there somewhere we can go?”

I was suspicious. Was all this an act and he was simply trying

to get me out of the office? To what purpose? In the first stages

of the predicted blizzard?

His voice was back to pleading. “I can pay your fee. A retainer.

I know you’re expensive. On the Internet I saw what you charge.

Money is not a problem. I can transfer money to your account.”

He named an amount Bill Gates and Warren Buffet together

could afford. I glanced at the Picasso on the wall. The amount he

mentioned wouldn’t be enough for a down payment to pick up

something which matched that but close.

Vincek noted my glance at the painting. He said, “You should

get something to complement that for the wall directly opposite.

It looks kind of forlorn there by itself. Maybe a Matisse with lots

of vibrant colors.”

Great to know I had an interior design critic as well as a

potential client.

I told him a figure double what he’d offered. He didn’t blink,

which made me more suspicious than ever that something was

very amiss, but I didn’t feel threatened by him, or at least felt

no immediate threat from him. As Humphrey Bogart told Mary

Astor in the movie of The Maltese Falcon, “We didn’t exactly believe

your story… we believed your two hundred dollars.”

My fee was considerably beyond two hundred by several

places to the left of the decimal point. He was offering to pay

too much. More suspicion.

I escorted him to the outer office. I instructed Duncan to make

the transfer from Vincek’s accounts to the agency’s. Vincek took

off the sweatshirt Duncan had given him, then put his hooded

sweatshirt back on, buttoned his overcoat and then unbuttoned

  1. At one point Vincek offered to type in the information for the

transfer. He even reached to work the keys, but Duncan’s calm

demeanor combined with a severe glare, kept Vincek at bay.

Taps on phone faces and clicks on keyboards and a few

moments later, money moved.

Vincek sat down for a moment and pulled his not-yet-dry

shoes and socks back on. We didn’t have extra shoes or boots in

his size. When he stood up, Vincek swayed from foot to foot. His

hands trembled. He put on his hat and tied his scarf under his

chin. I thought the guy might jump out of his skin.

I took two burner phones from the file cabinet. I keep a stack

of them on hand. I gave him one. Then I grabbed my hat, coat,

and gloves, and said, “Let’s go.”


UPDATE: Working Through a Personal Crisis

April 17, 2016 – By now most of you know my husband and I came home to a flooded house Monday afternoon. I’ve received so many PMs of condolences, questions, offers of help, etc., and I thought the best way to update everyone is to share what happened and next steps for us and our four terriers.

JonMichaelsen_400x600dpi300_Oct 2008

FIRST and FOREMOST, we and the dogs are fine; Rick and I were not home at the time of the flood and our dogs were on the top floor sleeping in their beds when a water supply line beneath the master bath sink ruptured. Water flowed rapidly for approximately three hours. We were out with a client and got a call from our alarm security company advising that our basement level motion detector had been tripped, setting off the alarm. Arriving home (same time as police), we opened the front door and immediately knew something had happened because water was overflowing the upper floor balcony onto the hardwoods of the living room. Rick rushed to the main water cut-off to stop the flow.

DSCF7006We had our upper floor remodeled 11 months ago; apparently there was either a faulty water supply line connection beneath one of the master bath sinks, or the contractor installed the connection improperly; either way, our home was damaged on three levels; the main level kitchen, pantry, breakfast room, dining room, part of the living room, upstairs master bedroom, master closet one guest bedroom, upper floor hallway, and our finished basement where there is a family den and our home-office space where Rick and I run our business. All electronics, computers, laser printers, color printer, fax/scanner, large partner desk set up with two opposite work surfaces and bookcases (where all my most precious clothbound, print books were kept), matching wood filing cabinets and bookcases were ruined. Part of the den was destroyed. We’ve lost so much furniture it would be easier to list what didn’t get destroyed than what got ruined!

We have insurance, so no worries there. Adjuster already visited and set our minds at ease. Basically, our plans to remodel the main level of our home to create an open floor-plan this summer, is suddenly upon us!


As you can image, we’re exhausted from walking, climbing, tip-toeing, and stepping over all the water remediation dryers and dehumidifiers that by the time our heads hit the pillows, its lights out! I’m a little OCD (okay, more than a little) and can’t stand a dirty room, much less an entire house as the result of demolition dust, flying pieces of insulation and carpeting fibers. We literally are now living in two rooms; a small bedroom with full bath on the upper most level where the water didn’t reach, and most of the main level living room; in the kitchen, we have use/access to the refrigerator, dishwasher and sink. All kitchen cabinets were destroyed. Our possessions were either destroyed or got packed by movers Thursday and taken to dry storage. Rick located temporary office space and we’re setting up our business there and have purchased two laptops, multi-function print, router, server and modem to at least allow us to run our property management business.

We have decided to remain in our home verses relocating to temporary housing because of our dogs. Those who are pet owners/lovers will understand completely when I say that we put our babies first. Their ages are 15, 13, 10 and 6. The older dogs are so set in their ways and routine that relocating them would cause more trauma than they have experienced thus far. We also want to be here with our remaining possessions and to oversee work the contractors will be performing. Everything we lost can be replaced excerpt perhaps some of my most treasured books, though I’ve already received multiple offers from the authors of said books, and others to help replace those ruined. I’ll be compiling an inventory shortly and will make it available to anyone who would like. We don’t need any funds. Rick and I have been debt-free for almost five years now (our main goal when I lost my job of almost 20 years with American Express during the great recession in 2009) and we have that rainy day fund you’ve always been advised to have.


Thank you all so, so much for your thoughts, prayers, concerns and well-wishes.

For obvious reasons, my writing time has been suspended. I’ll not be able to get back to working on the second Kendall Parker Mystery until late spring or early summer. I am truly sorry that you will have to wait a little longer to find out why the FBI insists the only man qualified for a risky undercover assignment aimed at luring in the homicidal maniac of young men in Atlanta is Sgt. Kendall Parker, the disgraced detective recently branded a faggot by the APD and forced out of the department. In the meantime, the first mystery in the series, Pretty Boy Dead, is still available in e-book and print.


Exclusive Excerpt: The Role Players (Book 8 in the Dick Hardesty Mystery Series)

Excerpt: The Roles Players by Dorien Grey (a Dick Hardesty

“Now,” Tait said as we settled into two chairs facing one another across a beautiful, pure white chess table with glowing green chess pieces I had no doubt whatsoever were pure jade, “Max tells me you’re a private investigator.”

I nodded, and he mirrored it.

“Yes, well, as you know, the leading man in our upcoming production of Impartial Observer was murdered last week.”

“I heard,” I said, “and I’m very sorry. Do the police have any leads?”

He shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of. They questioned me and everyone in the cast and crew, of course, but considering where his body was found and its proximity to a notorious bar that has, I understand, been linked with more than one other death in the past, I would imagine the police are focusing in that area. This kind of killing is simply too common in New York. There were no witnesses, no weapon was found, and no apparent motive other than robbery. And the arrest and conviction rate in such cases is, at best, extremely low. I suspect that as far as the police are concerned, Rod’s death may just be filed away and forgotten in time.”


“I understand,” I said, sure I had a good idea where this was headed, but waiting for him to get to it. I was aware that he was watching me closely without making it too obvious he was doing so. Most people would not even have been aware of it.

“Yes,” he said finally. “Well, here is where we reach the Twilight Zone aspect of the situation.”

He paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “Odd as this may sound, of all my business ventures, The Whitman Theater Group is the one of which I am most proud. It may not be the most financially successful, but it gives me a sense of satisfaction none of my other business interests can match.

“Without wanting to appear immodest, I credit much of my success to intuition, and I have this uncannily disturbing feeling that someone at the Whitman may somehow be linked to Rod’s death.”

I started to say something, but he raised his hand to cut me off.

“I know, I know…the odds are eight million to one against it, and I have absolutely nothing solid upon which to base the feeling, but it is there nonetheless, and it’s strong. I cannot simply ignore it.

“Even the remotest thought that someone at the Whitman could be involved is intolerable. And since Max and Chris mentioned that they were having close friends…one of whom was a private investigator…coming for a visit, I determined to have a talk with you.”

I couldn’t resist wondering, to what end?

“But you have no idea who might possibly be involved or why?”

He shook his head. “As for the ‘who,’ I’m afraid there might be a number of possibilities. The ‘why’ may have been a little easier to understand had you known Rod. He was very handsome and, like a great number of very handsome men over whom people fawn, I don’t think he ever really developed a firm understanding of or appreciation for the feelings of others. He wasn’t intentionally cruel, but his ego far outweighed his common sense. He too often was simply unaware of how others perceived his actions. He was what I call a ‘bedpost-notcher.’ He’d move from conquest to conquest, pausing just long enough to make sure that each was hooked before dropping him and going on to the next. To Rod, it was all innocent fun. Unfortunately, he was the only one who thought so.”

Again, I remained silent, sensing he was getting close to his point.

He looked at me steadily and said, “I was hoping you might be willing to indulge my intuition. I am not a man who goes around looking for boogeymen under the bed, but if for no other reason than my peace of mind, I really need to be sure that none of my people were in any way the cause of Rod’s death. It has cast a deep shadow over everything and everyone, and I can’t be content until I know for sure that what happened to him cannot be traced directly to the Whitman.”

“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” I said, “New York has to have more than enough private investigators, straight and gay, to be able to look into it for you. And Jonathan and I are on our first real vacation; we have to be back home in two weeks. While I of course appreciate your concern and am flattered that you’d want me to help you, the fact is that you don’t really know me from Adam.”

He smiled. “Not quite true. I have business interests in cities all over the country—one of them yours—and when I called the attorney who handles my legal matters there…” Let me guess: Glen O’Banyon, a mind-voice said. Can we say “small world,” boys and girls? “it seems he’d not only heard of you, but has worked with you on a fairly regular basis. He speaks very highly of you.”

He repeated his smile. “I must say anyone who can bring down the police chief of a city that size deserves my attention.”

Leaning forward in his chair, hands loosely clasped and elbows on the arms of the chair, he continued. “New York is one of the largest cities in the world, and yet gossip and rumor spread as fast as in any small town. If anyone here were to have the slightest idea that I suspect any sort of link between Rod’s death and the Whitman…. I can’t risk having a shadow hanging over me or The Whitman Theater Group. If my intuition is wrong, it’s wrong, but I won’t be satisfied until I know.”

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An Interview with the Iconic Donald Strachey Creator, Writer Richard Stevenson

Richard Stevenson Interview by Matthew Moore.

On behalf of the Facebook Gay Mystery-Thriller-Suspense Fiction Group, thank you for giving us a little of your time today, answering questions fans of the genre really want to know.

Where do you live?

Mostly I live in Becket, Mass., a hill town in the Berkshires. Joe Wheaton and I have a great converted barn that luckily somebody else went broke converting. Three months out of most years, including this one, we live in Bangkok, Thailand. We’re in Bangkok now, until April 12. We are crazy about this place and now have a lot of friends here, Farang and Thai. It’s a perfect way to escape a chunk of the New England winter. (See THE 38 MILLION DOLLAR SMILE, which is set here.)


Writers rarely like to toot their own horns; seriously! What would you say is your greatest accomplishment?

My greatest accomplishment as a writer was the day in 1980 when I sat down with a pack of Merits and wrote the first page of DEATH TRICK, the first Strachey book. I knew I was onto something and I was right. I wrote it in about eight weeks in a nicotine haze. (I quit smoking after delivering the manuscript of ICE BLUES in July, 1984.)

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