Exclusive Excerpt: The Pitiful Player by Frank W Butterfield (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 14)

Kindle: http://amzn.to/2eT0hX5


Friday, July 8, 1955

Ben White, a movie producer working on Nick’s dime, is ready to show off what he’s been up to, so Nick and Carter head to Hollywood to see what there is to see and, to be polite, it stinks.

Ben’s director has an idea and he says it’s gonna make Nick even richer than he already is.

But, before they can start the cameras rolling, leading man William Fraser is found murdered at the lavish Beverly Hills mansion of seductive silent screen star Juan Zane. Carlo Martinelli, Ben’s lover, is arrested and charged with murder even though everyone in town knows he’s innocent, including the District Attorney.

Meanwhile, the Beverly Hills Police Chief makes sure that Nick knows that his kind of help isn’t wanted in the posh village, home to some of Hollywood’s most famous stars. The chief is running a good, clean, wholesome town, after all.

From Muscle Beach to Mulholland Drive, Nick and Carter begin to piece together the clues that point to who did it and why. Somehow they manage to do so in the sweltering heat and noxious smog of the Southland.

In the end, however, will anyone be brought to justice? It’s Hollywood, so you’ll have to wait for the final reel to find out.


“Nick, wake up.”

I opened my eyes. I could see a shadow hovering above me. I reached up and felt Carter’s stubble-covered face. “What?”

“Ben just called. Greg and Micky got into a fight. Greg broke Micky’s nose and dislocated his shoulder. They’re all at the hospital. Ben wants us to come down.” He reached down and kissed me. “What were you dreaming about?”

I sighed. “Something about Liz and dessert.”

“Liz who? Liz Taylor? Are you dreaming about Hollywood?”

I laughed as he kissed me again. “No. Much bigger. Liz as in Queen Elizabeth.”

Carter nibbled on my left ear. He whispered, “She doesn’t look like a Liz. She looks like a Betty.”

I put my arms around his neck. “We need to get up. Ben needs us.”

Carter sighed and said, “I know.” He kissed my forehead.

“Why didn’t I hear the phone?”

“I was already awake when it rang.”

“You were?”

“Yes. That kid was in the swimming pool. I heard him splashing around. Buck naked, too.”

I laughed. “You know you’re not his type, right?”

Carter kissed my lips. “You saw that, huh?”

“You bet. I saw you running your eyes over his body. And I know why.”

“Why?” asked Carter as he ran his right hand along my face.

“He’s not the one you have a crush on. It’s his motorcycle.”

Carter laughed. “You’re right, Nick. When you’re right, you’re right.”

“Why haven’t you bought one since we were in Georgia?” He’d had an Indian motorcycle while we were on a case, investigating his father’s murder, in Albany, Georgia, back in the summer of ’53.

“It’s one thing to run around on a motorcycle in the backwoods of Georgia. It’s a whole other thing to go up and down California Street. Every time I’ve thought about it, all I can imagine myself doing is driving around and around Huntington Park. That would get boring after a while.”

“It’s mostly flat around here.”

“It’s not just the hills. It’s also the traffic.”

“We have to go, Carter.”

“I know,” he sighed. “Just five more minutes. They’ll wait.”

I said, “Fine,” and pulled him down on me.

Exclusive Excerpt: Ring of Silence (A Paul Turner Mystery Book 12) by Mark Zubro


Detectives try to save lives and protect the community and themselves.

We all saw the video of the Chicago cop who shot the kid sixteen time while his colleagues stood and watched. What would happen if Detectives Paul Turner and Buck Fenwick in a similar scenario showed up ten seconds before the firing started. In Mark Zubro’s twelfth book in his Paul Turner, gay police detective series, they’d do the right thing and put a stop to it. But that would only be the beginning of the intrigue, danger, and death that surrounds them in a ring of silence as they try to solve a mystery and do the right thing for themselves, their families, their colleagues, the community, and the rule of law.


Thursday 3:15 P.M.

“This goddamn Taser isn’t working.” Fenwick shook it, then banged it against the brick wall they were walking next to. He glared at the electronic device. “God damn technology bullshit.” He shook it again, pressed the on button. Nothing.

“Let me see it,” Paul Turner said to his partner. He was aware that Buck Fenwick’s technique of smashing at electronics seldom had the effect his partner desired. Fenwick and anything more technical than a manual typewriter had an iffy relationship at the best of times. Once, he ran over a recalcitrant phone with the tires of his car. Six times. Fenwick most often thought violence to an inanimate object would cause it to behave in ways he thought efficacious.

Turner seldom intervened when Fenwick was at war with electronics. Today, he thought he’d give it a try.

Fenwick handed him the Taser. They were at the beginning of a 3 p.m. to 11 p.m. shift on a hot June afternoon. They’d gotten a call of pursuit in progress. They’d been on foot only about a block or so away near the corner of Harrison and Canal. They chose to hurry over instead of trying to dash back to their car, parked a block in the other direction. They hustled forward. Outright running was precluded by Fenwick’s hefty bulk. They could hear sirens ahead of them and to their left. The wind of a predicted line of thunderstorms gusted in their faces.

They rounded the corner of the building. Twenty feet in front of them, Turner saw Detective Randy Carruthers, feet spread wide, gun held in both hands, pointing it directly at them.

Carruthers had recently betrayed Turner and Fenwick by providing information on a murder case to the Catholic Church. Turner had been waiting for the perfect moment to confront the squad’s most inept detective and now notorious traitor. Carruthers had been on vacation for a week after the events in question. It had only been a few hours since he’d been back on the job.

Between Carruthers and them was a young African-American male who was standing still, facing Turner and Fenwick. Maybe seven feet from them.

Carruthers screamed, “Halt, mother fucker.” In the seconds Turner had been on the scene, the kid hadn’t moved. His hands were up. The wind carried the boy’s screams of, “Don’t shoot. Don’t kill me.”

Carruthers’s bellows mingled with the kid’s. Like an LP album stuck in a ‘stupid’ groove, Carruthers kept repeating, “Stop, motherfucker!” In between screams for his life, the kid began to blubber and cry, then started to choke. Turner saw Carruthers’s gun wobble then swing wildly. For a second or so, the man’s body gave a mighty twitch, but then he renewed his stance and gripped the gun more firmly.

The kid’s body began to convulse from his own choking while trying to hold himself rigidly still so as not to be shot. In the few seconds that passed, Turner wondered where Harold Rodriguez was. He was Carruthers’s long-suffering partner. Carruthers started firing. Instead of standing around like police officers in other situations when a moronic and incompetent cop was firing pointlessly and murderously, Turner and Fenwick acted. They were not about to do an imitation of inert morons while someone committed murder. Not while they could do something about it. Pope or president, gang banger or fool, it did not matter who was fi ring. They had to be stopped.

Fenwick rushed to the kid and tackled him, attempting to get him out of range of the wildly firing Carruthers. On his knees, Fenwick tried to yank the kid behind the nearest vehicle. In his mad haste to get the kid out of the line of fire, he managed to bang the kid’s head against the fender of a car. With his last shove, he yanked so hard that part of the kid’s shirt ripped. Fenwick lost his grip, and the detective’s momentum caused his own head to bash into the car’s headlight, shattering it.

Simultaneous to Fenwick’s actions, Turner aimed the Taser at Carruthers and jammed at the on button. The thing functioned and the wires flew straight for the idiot detective. The thin, electrified cables caught him on his left shoulder. The dumb son of a bitch fell to his knees but kept firing. His gun swayed in great arcs up and down and side to side, which meant even more people could be at risk. Turner heard Fenwick grunt and begin cursing.

Then Turner saw Harold Rodriguez running up from the far end of an unmarked police car about thirty feet away. Rodriguez tackled Carruthers, whose gun skittered away. Turner noted that Rodriguez had Carruthers face down and was handcuffing the dumb shit’s hands behind his back. Turner made sure no one was near the cop’s gun which was eight feet from his left foot. Then he dropped the Taser and rushed to his partner.


Thursday 3:18 P.M.

In seconds, he crossed the few feet to Fenwick and the kid who was half under Fenwick. The kid was crying, blubbering, and repeating. “I didn’t do anything. Don’t kill me. I didn’t do anything. Don’t kill me.” Fenwick was holding his own left bicep with his right hand. He raged his unhappiness. “Dumb, mother-fucking son of a bitch. If he’s not dead, I’m going to kill him.” Turner saw red dampness spreading on the cloth of Fenwick’s shirt and dripping down to the pavement. Fenwick applied pressure to the spot the blood oozed from.

Turner could see no visible wounds on the kid. He got out his phone, called in, identified himself, and then said, “Shots fired. Officer down. Ambulance needed Harrison and Des Plaines Avenue.”

He knelt next to the kid and Fenwick. He placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. Up close, he thought the kid might be all of fourteen, short and scrawny.

Several times Turner repeated “You’re safe now.” Until he saw the kid’s eyes stop fluttering back and forth. Turner asked, “Have you been shot? Hurt?”

The kid caught his eyes. His panicky wailing and weeping became reduced to moans and hiccups. Perhaps it was Turner’s words or his calm demeanor that eased the kid’s fear. The boy whispered, “No. I think I’m okay.” He grunted and tried to wriggle out from under Fenwick. “Except this guy is kind of huge.” He gave up attempting to squirm from under the heavy-set cop and gave an abrupt shove to the part of Fenwick’s bulk that was holding the left side of his own body flush against the pavement.

Fenwick bellowed. Turner was reminded of a water buffalo in pain. The kid’s movement had caused Fenwick’s wounded arm to mush against the pavement.

Turner said to the boy, “Hang on for a second. My partner’s been shot. He probably saved your life.” Fenwick ceased roaring. Turner saw that his partner was trying to ease off his own shirt to examine his wound. Turner shifted so he was closer to his friend. Their eyes met.

Fenwick asked, “Is Carruthers dead yet?”

Turner looked over. Rodriguez and his prone partner were being surrounded by cops. Others were rushing towards them, guns still out. As Turner watched, he saw Carruthers struggle against his bonds. Rodriguez yanked on the cuffs and said, “Move again, dumb shit, and I’ll shoot you myself.” Rodriguez looked up at the assembling beat cops and said, “Make a god damn perimeter around the scene.” He pointed to Mike Sanchez and Alex Deveneaux, beat cops they’d all worked with many times. “Make sure no one touches any of the dash cams on any of the cars. Get as many guys to help you as you need. Anybody touches a dash cam, shoot them.”

Sanchez and Deveneaux hustled away to comply. Others began ushering the crowd away. Turner heard one man in the crowd whose voiced carried to him. “That cop saved that boy. He’s a hero. So is his partner. I’ve got it all.” The guy held up his cell phone in one hand while pointing at the prone threesome with the other.

Turner saw a forest of cell phones aimed at the scene from, it seemed, everyone nearby. He turned back to the kid. He asked, “What’s your name?”

“DeShawn.” He put his hands on either side of his head and said, “And my head kind of hurts.” In another few seconds, he was puking softly. Turner cradled his head. He saw shards of headlight where Fenwick must have hit and a dent in the fender lower down where the kid’s head must have banged into the car. Turner couldn’t remember the sequence of how soon after a head wound one was likely to puke, and if said vomiting was a sure sign of concussion. What he knew for sure was that it wasn’t a good sign


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