Jess had a lifetime pass to ride Into the Air, a family perk but also due to her wife’s sacrifice. Few, if any, abused this privilege. Technically, she flew standby, and she had to dress as a representative of the airline. That didn’t bother her though. She liked dressing nicely and did so for work all the time. She just had to make sure she didn’t dress in jeans and a sweat shirt as they didn’t appreciate that. She also had no guarantee of first-class privileges but would be bumped up if they could accommodate her. She was lucky this time. She boarded the plane in New York, and her first-class seat was waiting for her on the trip to Antwerp, Belgium.
She leaned back in the luxurious seat and enjoyed the ride, oblivious of the fact that she probably knew the pilot and trying not to think of the things that could happen to a plane, as they had to her beloved wife. Instead, she tried to enjoy the flight: reading the magazines the airline provided, savoring the excellent meal that Into the Air was known for, and meeting her fellow passengers. She chatted easily about her career as a decorator and enjoyed herself immensely.
had only a moment of fear as they landed at Antwerp Deurne airport, but she had
often experienced that and knew it had nothing to do with her wife’s death or the
crash. A taxi whisked her from the airport
to her hotel, and she checked in, enjoying the well-appointed surroundings and
the old-world charm. The décor was something
she appreciated at any time, and she drank it all in as the staff showed her to
her room. After taking a small nap, Jess
felt rested and went out to explore the city. She found some of the jewelry stores that
catered to tourists and went looking for a bargain, not only in jewelry but also
in the diamonds that Antwerp was known for.
She smiled as she looked at the expensive displays. Some were better quality than what she owned, and
some weren’t nearly as nice as her collection.
She enjoyed herself as she wandered around, getting lost half a dozen
times as she explored. She finally
called a taxi to take her back to her hotel, realizing too late that she was a mere
block away. It was amusing, and she
tipped the taxi driver for their discretion.
next day, Jess took a taxi to the address on the paperwork and arrived at a
rather imposing, old building made of large blocks of cut stone, its grey
coloring mirroring the sky above. She
looked at the monstrous door and saw there were no handles on it. Nor were there any attendants. She thought about it for a moment, aware that
she was under surveillance by the high-tech cameras mounted above the door, but
unable to figure out how to get into the building. There was a small pillar at the bottom of the
three steps leading into the building. She
looked at it bemusedly for a long time before she became aware there was a
small, triangular hole in it. Thinking
for a moment, she fished out her wife’s set of keys, which she had brought along.
She realized the odd, little key that
had given her the address must fit in this hole. Carefully, she inserted it. At first, it didn’t fit, and she realized she was
holding it wrong. She turned the
triangle upright and it slipped right in.
The door began to open slowly, ponderously, and she pulled the key out to
walk up the stairs and enter a rather elaborate lobby.
was unlike any bank she had ever seen before; there was just one man behind the
counter. She walked up.
he said with a delighted smile, as though she were a long-lost friend.
she repeated back, wondering if he spoke English. Her worries were immediately cast out with
his next words.
you are American!” he sounded just as delighted as he had been at her
yeah,” she said and then held up the triangular key that opened the door. “I have this key…” she began uncertainly.
have never been here before?” he sounded even more delighted, if that were
possible, and he smiled widely at her.
I haven’t.” She wondered what this was
inherit these keys, and sometimes, the instructions are lost,” he explained. “Let me show you,” he explained as he came
out from behind the counter to show her how the key fit another door. He punched in a code on a keypad that came up
and another set of doors opened, this one opening just as ponderously as the
outside door. “Our depositors are
looking for high-end security,” he explained.
“This is one of the safest vaults in the world,” he assured her. “If you have your account number, you can use
your key to withdraw your box.” He
indicated another post like the one outside where her key would fit.
now knew how it fit, so she got that one right on the first try. A panel came up for her to type on. She backed away, expecting him to type on it.
enter your account number,” he explained, indicating the screen. “You have as much time as you want. If you need any refreshments, please help
yourself.” His hands encompassed the
well-appointed room, which was set up like a library and had a bar and fridge at
wanting to appear too naïve, but having no idea how this worked, she asked,
“What if I don’t remember my account number?”
turned from where he had been about to make an exit. “That would be very unfortunate. The passkey,” he indicated the one in the small
kiosk, “is coded to the account number that was taken out when the vault was
assigned.” He left her with a smile, but
before he closed the doors, he guaranteed her, “Your privacy is assured.”
stared blankly at the closed doors and looked around the room. This was way beyond her, way beyond anything
she could fathom. What had her wife needed
such a vault for? What in the world had
Lena been involved in? She looked
thoughtfully at the screen and wondered what Lena would have possibly used as an
account number? Jess saw there was room
for seven numbers. She thought she had
known Lena after all their time together, but now, she worried if she had ever really
Think, she ordered herself. She had
known Lena. She had known her wife! She couldn’t
allow the doubts that Andy planted in her psyche so long ago make her ever
doubt her wife. Lena had been a simple
airplane pilot, not the smuggler they had implied. They had receipts for the things she had
brought back from her trips. Why would anyone
think Lena was involved in anything illegal?
“Think,” she said aloud, and then it hit her. They had both been big fans of eighties music
and a seven-digit code just might be that song they had both loved. Carefully she typed in 8, 6, 7, 5, 3, 0, and
then, very hesitantly, she typed the number 9.
The tune was playing in her head, but she was starting to sweat as she entered
that last digit. Now, what? She looked around, waiting for something, but
nothing happened. She looked down at the
pad again, exasperated, and noticed it was waiting for her. Then she saw the word “enter.” With sweat breaking out again, she pressed the
enter key, not knowing what would happen.
She was surprised when it flashed the word ‘correct’ on the screen and
closed the pad to her. The window in
front of her lowered, and a conveyor belt became visible to her. A gigantic arm moved around in a large arc and
plucked what looked like a tote from a shelf.
She watched as something out of the future, some type of robotic arm
seemed to place the tote on the conveyor belt, and it rolled out in front of
her. She looked around the room,
wondering what she should do with it.
the fasteners on the tote, she flipped them one at a time until she was able to
lift off the lid. She carefully placed
it beside the tote while she looked inside.
There was a pile of papers, which she reached for and began to look
through. One of them was for a house in
a town called Kanne Riemst. Why would
Lena have needed a house in Belgium, Jess wondered? Putting that aside, she looked through the paperwork
and found a statement for a bank account located at this very address. She pulled out the paperwork of the wife
benefit insurance policy to see where the monies had been paid, and the accounts
matched! Her eyebrow raised at the balance
in the account. What was this? Why had Lena needed this bank account in
couldn’t read all the papers as some were in Dutch and some contained the
German translation. That did her no good.
She had only taken French in school,
back in the day, and she hadn’t been a very good student.
the paperwork in this high security vault wasn’t needed, given the expense of
renting one, she was about to replace the lid when she realized the tote wasn’t
empty. Because it was all black inside
the tote, she hadn’t realized there were black velvet bags lining the bottom. She had thought the material was part of the
tote. She lifted out the first one, then
another and another and another and still, there was one more remaining. Frowning, Jess carefully opened what looked
like a jeweler’s bag. Shocked, she saw
the sparkle of what was contained in the bag.
Very gently, she poured the contents into her hand…the diamonds cascading
like thick water.
heart was beating like a drum. This was
proof that her wife must have been a smuggler.
This must be how Lena afforded the down payment on their house and land,
land, that while overgrown and abandoned, had been valuable and expensive
because it was on the ocean. That meant Lena
must have been doing this for a very long time.
looked in the other bags, finding similar caches of diamonds. One bag held what looked like garnets but might
be rubies? Jess did not know, but she
wondered how in the world her wife had acquired these valuable items. She closed the bags and returned them to the
tote, wondering what she was going to do with her discovery? She could go to the authorities, who would
demand that she turn them over, but how would that look? She might be implicated. Her reputation and her wife’s legacy would be
destroyed. And what about Tabitha?
sat down to try and think clearly, absentmindedly looking at the paperwork as
she thought. Trying to think rationally,
she realized, even without knowing the actual value of the stones, that the monies
represented in the bags were staggering.
It was scaring her beyond measure to think of what she had in her possession.
had been prepared to come to the bank, ask about her wife’s account, and take
possession of it. She had even brought a
copy of Lena’s certified death certificate, her will, and their marriage certificate
along, planning to give them to the bank to prove who she was. She hadn’t expected…this. What the hell was she going to do with it all? If she just showed up with all this money,
the IRS would become suspicious, and with the governments suspicions about Lena
being a smuggler, they would confiscate everything. The FBI would have no problem arresting her and
asking questions later. Wouldn’t Interpol
and the NTSB be interested as well?
Conspiracy theories would abound.
Their lives would be ruined…forever.
A tragic explosion results in the death of over 200 airplane passengers. Was the explosion caused by pilot error, or was it a conspiracy?
Pilot Cathalene (Lena) Penn, accused by the airline of being a smuggler, died in the tragedy, and her wife, Jessica is desperate to clear Lena’s good name. When Jessica travels to Belgium, her wife’s home away from home, she discovers diamonds, a second family, and a mystery…
Sometimes, choosing between what is safe and what is right isn’t easy, and running away is always an option…Flight!
About Author K’Anne Meinel
K’Anne Meinel is a prolific best-selling fiction writer with more than one hundred published works including shorts, novellas, and novels. She is an American author born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and raised outside of Oconomowoc. Upon early graduation from high school, she went to a private college in Milwaukee and then moved to California for seventeen years before returning to the state. Many of her stories are noted for being realistic, with wonderfully detailed backgrounds and compelling story-lines. Called the Danielle Steel of her time, K’Anne continues to write interesting stories in a variety of genres in both the lesbian and mainstream fiction categories. Her website is @ www.kannemeinel.com. K’Anne is also the publisher and owner of Shadoe Publishing, LLC @ www.shadoepublishing.com and in December 2017 she started the Lesfic Bard Awards @ www.lesficbardawards.com. In December 2018 she launched the Gay Scribe Awards @ www.gayscribeawards.com in hopes of duplicating the first year’s success of the Lesfic Bard Awards and to showcase more LGBT literature.
Four faces looked up expectantly as Dan
entered the room. Seated with the two officers he’d encountered at the morgue
were the chief of police and Dan’s former boss, Ed Burch.
“Hello, Ed. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Good to see you again, Dan.”
The chief stood to shake his hand, introducing the two officers as Danes
“Thanks for coming to meet us. The reason we’ve asked you here today, Dan,
as I’m sure you realize, is because of the body you discovered at the old
slaughterhouse last night.”
“The man’s name was Darryl Hillary,” Dan said.
The chief’s cool blue eyes stayed on him, taking his measure like any
good tailor or undertaker.
“Yes, of course. And I understand you were hired to find him by his
“Darlene Hillary. That is correct.”
“For reasons of discretion, I have to ask you to keep to yourself what I’m about to disclose. Are you good with that?”
Dan inclined his head. “I’d have to know what it is first, but if it’s
above-board and nothing to do with me then I can give you a reasonable
assurance I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
The chief looked to Ed. “You described him pretty well, Ed.”
“Dan’s a straight shooter,” Ed said.
The chief gave him another shrewd look, as though trying to decide how
much to confide in him.As far as Dan was
concerned, they’d invited him to this game of poker, so it was up to them to
reveal their hand first.
“I won’t mince words here, Dan. The reason we’ve asked you to come by today is because Ed suggested you might help us.”
Dan’s ear picked up. This was the first he’d heard of being asked to
help the police. He turned to Ed, who took up the narrative briefly.
“That’s right, Daniel. I’ve been asked to work as a special consultant on the case, in light of my capacity as a former police officer. When I heard
what was being asked, I suggested you might have a part to play in it.”
The chief’s icy eyes travelled from Ed back to Dan. “We believe
yesterday’s murder is related to a larger investigation into a child
prostitution ring, which has taken on the proportions of a Canada-wide
operation.” He indicated the two officers. “Detective Danes was assigned to
lead the operation in the GTA. With Hillary’s murder, Constable Pfeiffer has
just taken over as evidence officer. That’s where Ed felt you might help us,
Dan noted how the chief liked to say his name, as though to bring him
further into his confidence.
The chief continued. “With this recent death, we feel we may have the makings of a serial killer on our hands. This past spring, an ex-priest was
murdered in Quebec. Like the victim you found earlier this week, he was
severely beaten and had his left ear cut off.” The chief paused. “You may
recall that part of the National Sex Offenders Registry was dumped on the
Internet last year. Both the ex-priest and Hillary were named on it.”
Dan recalled reports of the incident, the inconclusive findings as to
whether it had been deliberate or not. He held up a finger. “Excuse me. Was it
proved to be an accident? The names being dumped on the Internet?”
The chief nodded. “We still don’t know how it got there, but the
information was deliberately released by person or persons unknown.”
The registry was created to compile information, including current
addresses, phone numbers and identifying markings such as tattoos that would
enable police officers to finger possible suspects in sex-related crimes.
Providing up-to-date personal information was mandatory on the part of the
offenders. The public was never supposed to have access to the list, however.
That the registry had been leaked on the Internet was cause for alarm for any number
of reasons, including the possibility that someone might try to harm or kill
anybody named in it, as seemed to have been the case here.
“So you think someone is targeting known sex offenders?”
The chief nodded. “The only thing linking the two victims is that both
names were on the Sex Offenders Registry and they both had their left ear cut
off.” He scrutinized Dan’s face. “Are you fine with everything we’ve told you
“Sure.” Dan nodded. “But I still don’t know why you’re telling me this.”
The chief opened a file. Clipped to the dossier was the photograph of a
young man in jeans and a sweatshirt. His cherubic face and curly dark hair made
him look like the junior member of a boy band.
“This is the chief suspect in the murder of the ex-priest, Guillaume
Thierry. He was an altar boy at the church in Montreal where Thierry worked. Eventually,
Thierry went to jail for eight years and was released two months before his
murder.” He put a finger on the photograph. “The young man’s name is Gaetan
Dan nodded. “Why do you think it was Bélanger instead of one of the
other abuse victims?”
“Speculation, mostly, but he was heard uttering death threats against Thierry
when he was released.”
“Anything connecting him to Hillary?”
“Nothing yet. What we know of this kid since his molestation is that he’s lived by thievery. He was caught twice over the past few years. The
first time he was caught stealing from a church — not the one where he was
molested, but I’m sure there was a connection in his mind.”
“But why kill Hillary?” Dan asked. “Why not murder another priest?”
“We’re not sure why, but the missing ear tells
us it’s Bélanger. It seems to be his signature.”
Pfeiffer spoke up. “All our data indicates that Bélanger is holed up somewhere in Toronto. He may have been here for several months already.”
Dan considered this. “Then why not put all your efforts into finding
Pfeiffer’s expression hardened. “Oh, we’ll find him all right,” he said
with the sort of burning zeal Dan distrusted in authority figures. “But we’d
prefer to find him before he kills again.”
“Well, it’s all very intriguing,” Dan said. “But I still don’t understand
how I can be of help.”
The chief smiled. “You are here because of the swiftness and accuracy of your search for Darryl Hillary. We understand you located him in
less than three days. That’s impressive.”
Dan shook his head. “Still, I’m not a police officer and as far as I
know the police force doesn’t hire outside. So, again, I ask why I’m here.”
The chief looked at Burch then at Dan. “Ed said that you have some very good contacts on the street. I’m told they are contacts the police are
not always privy to. We would like access to those sources.”
Dan sat back. At last it was clear. He shook his head.
“Even if I gave you the names of the people I use, I doubt any of them
would help you. Most of them live off the grid and would not willingly have
anything to do with the police, if they could help it. You might say that money
talks, but I’m sure you realize there are some things even money can’t buy.”
“They wouldn’t need to know,” the chief said.
Dan shook his head and stood up. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I can’t help
Dan Sharp searches the seamy underbelly of the city for a brutal killer.
an anonymous tip, missing persons investigator Dan Sharp makes a grisly find in
a burned-out slaughterhouse in Toronto’s west end. Someone is targeting known
sex offenders whose names and identities were released on the Internet. When an
iconic rock star contacts Dan to keep from becoming the next victim, things
take a curious turn. Dan’s search for a killer takes him underground in
Toronto’s broken social scene — a secret world of misfits and guerrilla
activists living off the grid — where he hopes to find the key to the murders.
About Author Jeffrey Round
Jeffrey Round is the Lambda-winning author of the Dan Sharp
mystery series. A native of Toronto, he is currently creating a writers retreat
in rural Mississippi.
It was with some regret that
Ellie extracted herself from Jordan’s
embrace only a few hours later. She wanted to get to the station early. With a
little luck, she could find something to present to the lieutenant that
convinced him it was worth talking to the A.D.A.
Despite the interrupted sleep,
she felt like she had a lot more energy than in recent days. After having to
deal with Natalie, assessing and coping with the damage she’d done, Ellie
welcomed the opportunity to focus on more important matters.
The baby plan, first and
Maybe, she’d have the opportunity
to clear an innocent man’s name.
The officer working in Records
regarded her with wide eyes when she made her request.
“Wow. That was a long time ago.
What you need might not even be in this building.”
“Could you take a look?”
“Yes, of course. Give me a
The woman typed something on her
keyboard. She looked up at Ellie, giving her an apologetic smile. “You might
want to sit down for a moment. First, we’ll have to check if the file was
Ellie had to admit that she
hadn’t even considered these possible obstacles, but it made the case all the
“That’s okay.” She hadn’t snuck
out of bed at 5:30 for
nothing. Ellie hid a yawn behind her hand.
“Okay, there’s a file here. I can
get it for you, but for the rest, you’ll have to go to the Archives. They open
“Thank you, that’s very helpful.”
The officer disappeared behind a
door, and Ellie was left alone. Ten minutes later, she had to sit up straighter
in her chair to make sure she wouldn’t fall asleep. Another five minutes later,
the officer reappeared.
“I’m sorry about that,” she said.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“No, thanks. This is great. I’ll
go to the Archives later.”
Ellie found Maria Doss at her
desk. Her night seemed to have been fairly uneventful.
“Good morning. I take it you
didn’t have to notify the lieutenant about anything.”
“Why are you here already? What’s
wrong with you?”
Ellie laughed. “I was just about
to get myself a coffee. I take it you’d like one?”
“I shouldn’t, as I’m going to a
brunch later, but yes, please.”
A few minutes later, Ellie was
back, enjoying her coffee as she went over the specifics of the Wilder case.
These forms had been filled out
on a typewriter. She noticed the names of the investigators, who would be long
retired by now—or dead. She hoped she’d be able to find the retired ones and
talk to them.
George Wilder was a
twenty-year-old college student, accused of and convicted for killing his
girlfriend Stella Brown after a party. He claimed he was innocent, but the
evidence was damning: The murder weapon wrapped in a bloody shirt, hidden in
the closet of his dorm room. There was the mention of a witness who had seen
him go into Stella’s room the night of the murder. Where was the motive? Some
of their classmates suggested that jealousy might have been a reason, but if
Stella had been seeing someone else, no one knew about it. It remained unclear
whether this theory was valid.
Ellie assumed that she might find
more information at the courthouse. Something about Wilder had made the jurors
think that he had committed the atrocious crime. He had admitted that both he
and Stella had been drinking, but that he’d said goodbye to her at the door to
her dorm room and left. He appeared devastated over her death, and never
Ellie tried to imagine the scene,
a young couple enjoying a night out together, going home to their respective
dorms, then…what? Someone had stolen into Stella’s room with an axe? That was a
big risk. She might wake up, try to defend herself, scream…unless there had
been more in her blood than alcohol.
She needed more of a background
on both the victim and convicted suspect. She started to jot down notes—Archives, Investigators, Family, Prison, Newspapers—when
a soft kiss to her neck alerted her to the fact that Jordan had finally made it to work.
The gesture was tender and quick, but of course Maria had noticed.
“You two are so adorable, it’s
annoying,” she said. “I’m out of here. Thanks for the coffee, Ellie, and good
“So did you find anything?” Jordan was in a
much better mood than she had been when Allen approached them about the case.
Of course she had slept longer and taken the time for breakfast. Ellie also
prided herself in having to do something with Jordan’s much improved spirits,
including their conversation about the future and subsequent activities the
“It’s too early to say, but for
one, the motive is still unclear to me from what I’ve seen. I have a list of
places to go.”
“It will be tough to find most of
the people involved at the time.”
“Yeah, but we already have Doreen
Byrd. She might be able to tell me where to find some of those people. And I
want to talk to the prison employees. I’ll take it up with the lieutenant when
he comes in, and he’ll hopefully agree that we talk to Valerie.”
Jordan looked doubtful. Ellie
thought that unfortunately, she had a reason—A.D.A. Esposito wouldn’t follow
along on a vague hunch, but Ellie needed her on her side.
“I can’t help it,” she said. “I
keep thinking about what Jill said—what if it was someone we cared about? We
can’t just forget about it because it happened sixty years ago. There might be
a murderer out there who’s been enjoying his freedom while this man spent his
life in prison.”
“It’s a shame if that’s what
happened. The system isn’t perfect.”
“Such dark thoughts on a
beautiful morning,” Valerie Esposito joked.
Ellie jumped to her feet.
“You’re here! Could I talk to you
for a second?”
“Actually, I was here to speak to
your boss for a second, and then I have a working brunch later. If you could
come to my office this afternoon?”
“Perhaps I could join you in the
lieutenant’s office? I swear this won’t take long.”
Lieutenant Carroll was already in
the room, observing the scene with amusement.
“You see, Counselor, it’s almost
impossible to say no to Detective Harding. Five minutes.”
“That’s all I need for now. Thank
you so much.”
She sent a triumphant smile to Jordan before
joining Carroll and Esposito.
Ellie usually got what she wanted. If there was anything new to find about this case, she’d find it.
Did George Wilder die in prison serving a life sentence for a crime he didn’t commit? A reporter asks Ellie on behalf of Wilder’s family to look into the decades old murder. When initial inquiries raise doubts about Wilder’s guilt, Ellie thinks that the real killer might have gone unpunished, but she doesn’t have much time to prove her theory.
Jordan gets more than she bargains for when she accepts a tip from a detective with another precinct. The murder of a local store owner turns out to have international implications.
Together, Jordan and Ellie work on the most important project of their lives…
More about author, Barbara Winkes:
Barbara Winkes writes suspense and romance with lesbian characters at the center. She has always loved stories in which women persevere and lift each other up. Expect high drama and happy endings. Women loving women always take the lead.
by a million-dollar view of the Bay Bridge in the window of her
eighteenth-floor office on California Street, Ruth Fleming regarded me
skeptically. The large, gleaming desk that served as a buffer between us held
an in and out box and a complicated, many-buttoned phone but not a single
personal item; no framed family photographs or fancy paperweights for her. Her
desk proclaimed she was all business, as did the woman herself. Her makeup had
been painstakingly applied to project attractiveness without a trace of
sensuality just as the silk burgundy shawl that draped the padded shoulders of
her jacket seemed calculated to soften her authority. The nameplate on her desk
identified her as a vice president. The only other women I had seen when she
led me from the foyer to her office were secretaries. Larry Ross’s words may
have been good enough for her boss, Myles Landon, in L.A., but Fleming tapped
with doubtful fingertips the résumé she had asked me to bring her.
have to say, Mr. Rios, you don’t seem to have any relevant qualifications for
this job,” she observed in a firm but modulated voice.
what I told Myles Landon,” I replied. “He seemed to think my experience as a
litigator would be sufficient. You don’t agree?”
frowned. “No, I don’t, but Myles is the boss, so here we are.”
having an unqualified man foisted on her was a reminder that the old boys
network was alive and well. I sympathized but was hardly in a position to
concur. I needed the work.
Fleming,” she said, automatically.
“Mrs. Fleming, give me a chance and if you think I’m not up to the job, I’ll quit and tell Landon it was my decision.”
seemed a fraction less annoyed with me. “I’ll hold you to that, Mr. Rios.” She
picked up a folder from her in box and slipped it across the desk. “This case
involves a claim of accidental death which would require us to pay double the
hundred thousand dollars. A lot of money, obviously, but not in and of itself
the reason for us to investigate. The cause of death is accidental
asphyxiation—apparently, there was a gas leak in the insured’s apartment. His,
uh, male companion was also in the apartment but he survived. The companion is
also the beneficiary. The claim was filed on his behalf a few days after the
accident, but we haven’t been able to reach him since.”
filed the claim?”
agent who wrote up the policy. Not one of our agents. We bought the policy from
bought a policy from another insurance company? Is that a common practice?”
It’s called reinsurance. The selling company wants to spread the risk of loss
by carrying fewer policies and the buying company wants the business. It works
out for everyone. Anyway, we called the Confederation agent and he said he
can’t find the claimant either. Obviously, we’re not going to take any action
on the claim until we have a beneficiary.”
all you want me to do? Find the beneficiary?”
allowed herself a tight little smile. “Well, to start. After that, I expect you
to do the standard investigation.”
swiveled her chair away from me and reached for a fat binder on the credenza
behind her. “This is our operations manual. You’ll find a chapter on
investigating death claims.”
took the binder and the manila folder. “May I call you if I have a question?”
vice president in charge of operations,” she said. “Perhaps you could call
I crammed the operations manual and the case file into
my briefcase and lugged it into the Gold Mountain Café, a Chinese-American
restaurant near Civic Center. The restaurant was close by the county law
library and within walking distance of both the civil and criminal courthouses.
I was drawn by its cheap prices, decent food and the willingness of its elderly
owners, the Chus, to let me camp out at a back booth for a couple of hours and
work when it was inconvenient to walk back to my office. If I was being
entirely truthful, Gold Mountain held one other big attraction for me: Adam,
the Chus’ twenty-three-year-old grandson. Adam was their jack-of-all-trades who
cooked, waited tables, ran the cash register and even, I saw, passing the place
late one night, mopped the floors after closing time.
The Gold Mountain was never crowded and often almost
empty. The menu featured both American diner food, burgers and Denver omelets,
and standard Chinese food, wonton soup and beef with broccoli, and hadn’t been
changed in years; new prices had simply been taped over the old ones. Unlike
the retro fifties diners springing up elsewhere in the city, Gold Mountain’s
long, Formica counter, checkerboard linoleum floor and red vinyl booths
appeared to actually date to the second Eisenhower Administration. Cracks in
the vinyl were covered with duct tape and Adam’s best efforts could not lift
the decades of scuff marks on the floor.
Adam was a fresh and vivid presence in the dim,
shabby, somnolent restaurant. He towered over his diminutive grandparents and
he was massively muscled, his big thighs and powerful chest straining the seams
of his black trousers and white dress shirt waiter’s uniform. His square-jawed,
big featured, broad face, topped with a close-cropped bush of inky hair, had a
warrior’s fierceness in repose but when he smiled, which he did frequently,
dimples and a natural sweetness emerged. Our brief conversations about the fate
of the Giants took a turn toward friendship when I asked him about the
photographs that inconspicuously lined the walls the restaurants; old
black-and-white images of Chinatown. The one that hung above the booth where I
usually sat depicted a counter restaurant filled with Chinese laborers, some in
Western clothes, some in Chinese garb, their hair in queues, plainly taken in
the late nineteenth-century.
“That was our first restaurant,” he explained. “On
Grant Street. There’s only a counter because back then most of the Chinese were
guys without families so they’d come in, sit down, eat and leave. You can still
find a few of those old counter restaurants in Chinatown.”
“What happened to their families?”
“The guys came over to work and make money to send
home. The women and kids stayed behind in China. Then the exclusion act kept
“How many restaurants has your family owned?”
“Gold Mountain is number four. The one in the picture
was destroyed in the earthquake. We opened another one in North Beach but the
Italians burned it down.”
His good-natured expression soured a little. “The
Italians didn’t want any Chinese in their neighborhood so they torched the
place. The third one opened in Chinatown. Then my granddad opened this one in
the sixties. The Chinatown place got sold, so Gold Mountain is the end of our
“Are you going to take it over?”
Adam laughed. “No, this isn’t the life for me.” He
glanced toward his grandparents who were having an animated conversation in
Cantonese at the cash register. “A couple of years ago, he had a stroke and she
told him it was time for them to retire, but this place is more to him than a
business. This is what his dad and granddad handed down to him and he was ready
to die at the grill. She asked me to talk to him because,” he said with a grin,
“I’ve always been his favorite grandkid. I’m the only one who listened to his
stories. We made a bargain. I’d come and work for him and he’ll retire next
year, after New Year’s. Chinese New Year’s.”
“None of their children want the place?”
He laughed again. “My dad and his brothers and sisters
had to work here when they were kids. They hated it.”
“So, basically, you’re putting your life on hold to
work here until your grandfather’s ready to retire?”
“Sure,” he said with a quizzical grin as if my
question puzzled him. “It’s for my family.”
After that, he’d linger at my table and talk after he
took my order or, if he was in the kitchen, he’d come out and take his break
with me. I quickly realized there were two Adams. One was the easygoing,
all-American boy with the quick smile who loved sports and joked about being
too tired from his twelve-hour days to look for a girlfriend. The other was the
serious young man who had learned from his grandfather the difficult history of
the Chinese in San Francisco and who, when he spoke of it, showed flashes of
the warrior I had first taken him for.
Once when we were talking, I mentioned Yick Wo versus Hopkins, an 1886 Supreme
Court decision I had studied in my constitutional law class. In Yick Wo, the court ruled that a San
Francisco ordinance requiring permits for laundries violated the equal
protection clause because it was administered in a way that denied almost all
Chinese applicants. Adam knew all about Yick
Wo and its aftermath.
“That was just one law,” he said. “There were lots of
them to keep us in our place and when they didn’t work, the mobs did things
like burning down my family’s restaurant. The city’s always been a tough place
He frowned. “You ever really looked at Chinatown? I
mean, past the tourist joints? It’s a slum. San Francisco’s always been a tough
place for us.” The easy smile reappeared. “But there’s good and there’s bad,
right? You know why my granddad named this place Golden Mountain Café?”
“No, and I was curious since there aren’t any
“In Cantonese, Gold Mountain is gam saan. That’s what the Chinese immigrants called San Francisco,
before they got here. They thought they’d come over and get rich.”
“Find streets paved with gold?”
“Yeah,” he said. “They didn’t find that but a lot of
our families found a home. Hey, is that all you’re going to eat?”
“Are you trying to fatten me up for a reason?”
He grinned. He’d made it clear he thought I was too
thin and often piled my plate with more food than I could possibly eat, then
packaged the leftovers.
Larry had warned me not to get romantically involved
my first year of recovery but I figured even he wouldn’t object to my discreet
infatuation with this smiling straight boy. Because clearly, Adam was a straight guy, cluelessly friendly
and open and at ease in his big body as only straight guys can be. A gay guy
who looked like him would have carried himself with the slightest bit of
theatricality to show off the gym-built muscles, and the eyes of gay men in the
city at that moment were all touched with a drop of anxiety, like a tiny tear that
never fell. Adam’s eyes were clear.
I felt Adam’s meaty fingers digging into my shoulders
and briefly massaging me. “Hey, what you got there?”
The operations manual was open on the table before me.
I explained to him what it was and the job I had taken on.
“I thought you did criminal law,” he said, positioning
himself in front of me, order pad in hand.
“Business is slow and a man’s gotta eat,” I said.
He smiled. “Speaking of eating, what’ll you have
“Surprise me?” I ventured.
“Tuna melt and tomato soup.”
“I have that most days. What’s the surprise?”
“Side of salmonella,” he said. “Kidding!”
He went off and I stared appreciatively at his broad
back and big, tight glutes, and then, with a sigh, turned my attention to my
to the opaque legal documents I was accustomed to, the operations manual was
refreshingly to the point. Thus far I had learned that every life insurance
policy contained a contestability clause that allowed the insurer to challenge
the validity of the policy within two years of the death claim. Whether the
company exercised that option depended on the results of a preliminary inquiry
called a death confirmation investigation. This investigation centered on three
areas: whether the insured’s information on the original application—name, age,
gender, address—contained any material misstatements that would void the
policy; confirmation of the insured’s identity to make sure the insured and
decedent were the same person; and verification of cause of death. If those three
things checked out, the claim was paid.
opened the file on William Ryan, the man whose death I was investigating. There
wasn’t much there: a copy of the application, the policy itself, and the death
claim. At the time he applied for the life insurance policy, a year and a half
earlier, Ryan was thirty-two years old, lived on Eureka Street and listed his
occupation as businessman. Under intended beneficiary was the name Nick Trejo,
a twenty-two-year-old who lived at the same Eureka Street address. Beneath the
space for “beneficiary’s relationship to insured” was the word “roommate.”
Reading between the lines—two unrelated men, one older than the other, living
together in the heart of the city’s gay neighborhood—it was obvious Trejo was
Ryan’s lover and the older man had taken out the policy to provide for the
younger one in the event of his death.
“companion,” “friend,” “lover,” “partner.”
I thought about all those words, some innocuous, some salacious, and
always pronounced with a slight, mocking hesitation that simultaneously
acknowledged and dismissed the bond, the way Ruth Fleming had paused before
describing Nick Trejo as William Ryan’s “male companion.” A man joined to a
woman was a love story. A man joined to a man was a smutty joke. Well, at least
the company wasn’t trying to withhold payment because Trejo was Ryan’s lover as
it might have in an earlier time. That was progress, I guess.
called Brendan Scott, the insurance agent who had issued Ryan’s policy, from
the restaurant payphone and made an appointment to see him at three. That gave
me an hour to kill. What could I learn about William Ryan in that hour? It
occurred to me I could look up his obituary at the nearby city library.
Chu was working the cash register. She took my money and made change and I went
back to the booth and left a five for Adam who was back in the kitchen.
you tell Adam I said goodbye?” I asked Mrs. Chu on my way out. She smiled and
last of the city’s Indian summer had been washed away in a violent storm over
the weekend. The damp streets were filled with small tree branches and the
gutters were clogged with leaves. The gray sky cast a funereal pall across the
city where everything and everyone, cars, buses, streetcars, pedestrians,
seemed to move in slow motion. I pushed open the doors to the gloomy library
building with cold fingers. A reference librarian directed me to the fourth
floor reading room where back issues of magazines and newspapers were piled on
had died three weeks earlier. I pulled a month’s worth of issues of the city’s
gay newspaper and flipped through the first one to the obituaries. They took up
two pages, ranging in length from a full column to a couple of paragraphs, all
illustrated with thumbnail black and white photographs of the eulogized
men—they were all men—some no more than blurred snapshots, others studio
scanned the names and didn’t find William Ryan among them but I did see a
familiar face grinning at me from one of the photographs. Tom Rustin. He’d been
in his last month of residency at the halfway house when I’d arrived. I noticed
him immediately because he and I were the only guys at the house who weren’t
white. I remembered his imperturbability and how, when he spoke at a meeting,
he always began, “Hi, family.” Now he was dead: “Complications from HIV. His
only regret was not being able to pick up his nine-month AA chip at the Show of
leafed through three more issues of the paper and fifty-seven obits before I
found William Ryan’s notice. The accompanying photograph showed an attractive,
dark-haired man with light-colored eyes, a sharp nose and a forceful jaw,
wearing a dress shirt and tie, a phone pressed to his ear.
Bill Ryan was born on August 18, 1955, in Eden Plains,
Illinois. He came to San Francisco in 1971 and never left. He got an Associate
Arts degree from City College and worked as real estate agent with Bay Realty
before opening his own office in the Castro in 1977. Many of the neighborhood’s
Victorians were sold by Bill. In 1980, Bill turned his agency into the
successful property management company he was running at the time of his sudden
death. He is survived by his faithful office manager, Doris Chen, and his
partner of five years, Nicholas Trejo. In keeping with Bill’s wishes, there
will be no memorial.
took me a couple of readings to decode the terse notice. Bill Ryan was clearly
a guy in a hurry. He would only have been twenty-two when he started his own
real estate agency and got caught up in the boom years when gay men were
transforming a quiet Irish neighborhood called Eureka Valley into the epicenter
of the city’s gay life they renamed the Castro. Property management implied
property to manage which made me think he had not just been a seller but a
buyer. Like many other young men before him, going back to the Gold Rush, Ryan
had come to California to make his fortune.
was only eighteen when he uprooted himself from the Midwest and moved across
the county. Surely, his reason for such a dramatic migration wasn’t to attend a
community college or work in real estate, things he could have done anywhere.
No, I surmised that he, like thousands of other young men in the ’70s in
similar situations, had fled his small-minded Midwestern town for San Francisco
to find a community of his own kind. And, because he was so young, I had to
think there had been some serious trouble at home behind his move. The
likeliest scenarios were either that he’d been discovered and his family had
thrown him out, or, fearing imminent discovery, he’d run off before the shit hit
the fan and become another gay refugee in a city filled with us.
other refugees, however, it did not appear he had immersed himself in that
community. Their obituaries were filled with mention of gay clubs and groups to
which the men had belonged, gay charitable organizations in which they had been
active, and included long lists of surviving friends and personal messages of
grief from them. Nothing like that for Bill Ryan. A casual reader of his
circumspect death notice might not have even realized he was gay. Even the
mention of his lover, Nick Trejo, was cast as his “partner” suggesting a
professional rather than a personal relationship.
family was mentioned among his survivors, confirming my suspicion that he was
estranged from it. We were a generation of men who, when we had come out as
gay, had been stricken from our family trees, and become non-persons whose
names were spoken, if at all, in shamed whispers. Both my parents had died
before I had to come out to them, and my only sibling, my sister, Elena, was
also gay. But I did have uncles, aunts and cousins—none of whom I had seen
since my mother’s death a decade earlier because I hadn’t wanted to come out to
them. Maybe my Mexican, Catholic relatives would have been okay with a gay
nephew and cousin but more likely they would have been disgusted or appalled.
Even before my parents had died, and after I’d left home for school, I’d seen
my relatives so rarely, it hardly seemed worth risking rejection, so I drifted
away. The habit was so ingrained, I had even drifted away from my sister,
though she had probably saved my life.
Scott’s insurance agency was on the same block of Market Street as Ryan’s
property management company. Their two businesses were separated by a
dry-cleaners, a camera shop and a coffee shop where, Scott was telling me, the
two men sometimes met for coffee.
that Bill had much time for socializing,” Scott said. He was fiftyish, paunchy
and going gray but he had a salesman’s easy smile and twinkling eyes, as if he
was about to tell you a particularly good joke. “Nope, it was always business
with him. Terrible how he died, though I guess it was better than AIDS.”
does that mean?”
smile flickered off. “People would have thought he was one of those sleazy South
of Market guys hanging out in bathhouses with their legs up in the air and a
bottle of poppers stuffed up their nose.”
don’t think the virus limits itself to them,” I said mildly.
shrugged. “All I’m saying is Bill wasn’t like that. He was about the
straightest gay guy I knew. He worked long hours and then went home to Nick.”
know Nick Trejo?”
only met him a couple of times,” he corrected me. “Cute kid. Younger than
sold the policy to Bill.”
nodded. “Sure did. He came in one day out of the blue and said he wanted to
make sure Nick was taken care of if something happened to him. Lots of gay guys
do that, you know, to make sure there’s something for the boyfriend the family
can’t get to.” He frowned. “Of course, these days, with the virus, it’s getting
harder and harder to write a life insurance policy if the applicant’s gay.”
would your company know if someone’s gay?”
he replied. “If an application for life insurance comes out of certain zip
codes where there’s lots of gay men, the company rejects it.”
okay with you?”
he replied firmly. “It’s not. There are ways around it—” he paused. “I think I
better keep them to myself.”
I understand. Getting back to Bill Ryan’s policy. You filed the claim when he
died. Did Nick ask you to?”
shook his head. “I left him messages but he didn’t call back so I went ahead
and filed the claim to preserve his rights.”
you have any idea where he might be?”
no, but you let me know if you find him.”
course,” I said, standing up. I noticed the gay paper on his cluttered desk was
opened to the obituaries.
noticed me noticing it. “My granddad called the obits the old man’s sports
page. Didn’t think I’d be paying much attention to them before I was his age.”
times,” I said.
keep safe now,” he replied.
too late for that, I thought, but did not say, not wanting him to write me off
as one of those South of Market guys.
went around to Ryan’s office but the door was locked with a handwritten sign
taped to it: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
light drizzle fell from the darkening sky onto a narrow street in Hayes Valley
where I stood before the tumbled-down, uninhabited, nineteenth-century cottage
where Hugh Paris had lived. My lover. A recovering junkie, ex-rent boy, the
black sheep of a wealthy family, whose murder remained officially unsolved.
When I’d first returned here after leaving rehab, it was for evidence that Hugh
had really existed and not been simply a figment of my alcohol-soaked
imagination. In my mind, I walked myself up the creaky steps, through the door
and the oddly barren living room into the bedroom. There, on a mattress on the
floor, Billie Holiday crooning in the background, the damp sheet twisted around
our feet, we had what was now called unsafe sex but which, at the time, I had
thought of as making love. Standing there in the drizzle, I wondered if, in our
heedless exchange of fluids, one of us had passed the virus to the other. Not
that it mattered to Hugh. He lay beneath the snow in a Boston graveyard. He was
twenty-six when he was murdered and I remember thinking, how can that be? Who
dies that young? Now the city was filled with gay men wondering if they would
live to see thirty.
if I got sober just so AIDS could kill me, I asked Larry one particularly
anxious morning. Have you been sick, had any of the symptoms? he asked. No, I
said, but—He cut me off. If you start down the road of what ifs, it’s going to
lead you back to the bottle. I’m afraid, Larry. Afraid of what? A possibility?
Something that might never happen? It’s more of a probability, I said. Is it
happening today, he demanded with an asperity I realized later was a measure of
his own anxiety. No, I said. Then stop these fantasies and learn to live in
your body. What? You heard me, he said. Your mind lives in fear and regret but
your body can only live right now, in this moment. So, take some deep breaths
and live in your body. It’s a safer place to be than in your head.
drizzle turned into a cold, pelting rain. I opened my umbrella and headed home.
Was Bill Ryan’s death an accident? Henry Rios has his doubts. The first new Henry Rios novel in 20 years from six-time Lambda Literary award winner Michael Nava is a brilliantly plotted mystery that weaves together the gripping story of two gay men against the backdrop of 1980s San Francisco as the tsunami of AIDS bears down upon the city. Kirkus Review says: “Delivering an unusual subject and structure, this tale offers refreshing emotional depth and a gay narrative seldom seen in thrillers.”
Author, Michael Nava
Michael Nava is the author of an acclaimed series eight novels featuring gay, Latino criminal defense lawyer Henry Rios who The New Yorker, called “a detective unlike any previous protagonist in American noir.” The New York Times Book Review has called Nava “one of our best” writers. He is also the author of an award-winning historical novel, The City of Palaces, set at the beginning of the 1910 Mexican revolution. In addition, he is the writer/producer of the Henry Rios Mysteries Podcast which adapted the first Rios novel, Lay Your Sleeping Head into an 18-episode audio drama. In 2019, he also founded Persigo Press, through which he hopes to publish LGBTQ writers and writers of color who write genre fiction that combines fidelity to the conventions of their genre with exceptional literary merit.
He heard the music, wisps of sullen jazz that ached with loneliness, through the open back window as the unmarked patrol car cruised past the bar. No name above the bar door, just a flashing sign in the shape of a caged bird, the glow of neon reflecting yellow ripples in puddles on the gum-scarred sidewalk.
Jim Blake leaned back in the rear seat and told himself to relax. All he had to do was wait for someone to ask him home. How hard could it be? He rested his right hand on the armrest, but his fingers couldn’t keep still. He lit a Chesterfield and tossed the match out the window.
The Santa Anas had kicked up that evening, a restless wind scuttling leaves and litter in the gutter, an arid heat that blew through the window and left his face taut and his throat dry.
At the wheel Sergeant Hollings slowed to a stop down the block, nestling the Plymouth Savoy between two parked cars. He glanced over his shoulder at Jim and beamed.
“You ready to get lucky?” Hollings’s grin was wide. His bristly dirty blond crew cut and chubby cheeks gave him a boyish look, despite being nearly forty. But Blake had heard around the precinct house that the sergeant’s amiable manner belied a stubborn streak and an unerring sense of right and wrong. It had kept him from involvement in the gambling, prostitution, bookmaking, and loan sharking payoff scandals that had almost brought the department down. Hollings wasn’t one to ever back off, and that had gotten him in trouble with the brass and left a once promising career floundering in Vice.
Blake wasn’t going to let that happen to him.
Riding shotgun, Detective Ryan shifted in the front seat to look back at him. He had a beer keg for a belly, so it wasn’t easy. “Let’s look you over, you handsome devil.” He raised one bushy eyebrow—thick as a mustache—and licked his lips. “Mmmmm, they’re going to eat you up.” He was enjoying himself too much to even try to wipe the smirk off his face.
“The tie will get them,” Hollings commented, playing along and nodding approvingly.
“Yeah, they like bright colors.”
Blake felt his cheeks flush and smiled gamely; he had expected a hazing on his first night on the job, and it looked like he was going to get it.
Hollings gave him a wink. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
Climbing out of the back seat, Blake hesitated on the sidewalk, pulling on his sport jacket. He was a big man, six foot two, with broad shoulders. He had bought the jacket hurriedly this morning from a men’s store on Vermont, and it felt a little tight. It was hard to find jackets off the rack wide enough to accommodate the span of his shoulders, and he hadn’t had time for alterations.
“Oh, a little piece of advice,” Ryan said, leaning out the window, his expression suddenly serious.
Blake bent toward the front passenger window expectantly.
“If you have to pee, hold your dick tight and your buns tighter.”
Shaking his head, Blake forced a grin, and turned down the street. Hollings rolled down his window and stuck his head out. “And if they ask you if you’re butch or fem, be sure to tell them you’re fem.” He chortled loudly.
He made his way toward the bar. The sidewalks were nearly empty tonight, but it was early. A few figures, their voices scarcely carrying above the din of traffic, huddled at the corner, and across the way a man exited a tavern, quickly put a hat on his head obscuring his face, and strode rapidly away.
Blake remembered this strip from shore leave during the war, spanning Fifth Street from the downtown central library to the blocks east of Main, where dozens of bars had been plastered with warnings for service members, off-limits to military personnel. The queer run. The streets had been filled with people then, carousing from bar to bar, the all-night coffee shops packed, the parks alive with shifting shadows.
He wondered briefly if he’d made the right choice. He’d also been offered a position in the abortion unit in the homicide division, but had turned it down. Investigating and arresting the victims of botched back-alley abortions—mostly poor women, Negro and Mexican, who didn’t have the money to go to the legit physicians who clandestinely performed the procedure—left a sour taste in his mouth. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. And in a short while, he would be out of Vice, and he could forget the whole thing. He’d had bad memories before. The war. The war, and other things. No, he’d made the better choice.
The city had changed so much in the last decade that he hardly recognized it upon his arrival last week. The sprawl spread straight to the ocean, and gas rationing and the tops of headlights painted black to protect the city from bombing had given way to a building boom and streets snarled with traffic. The new super highways promised to change all that, and construction was underway all over the city.
Gone were the days when servicemen squeezed two to a bed in overcrowded Ys, and the sound of snoring young men would follow him down to the communal bathroom late at night, where a constant commotion of soldiers coming and going from the ports in Long Beach and San Pedro left the showers busy all night long.
After what had happened here, it was a wonder he could come back. But ten years was a long time, and the city had called to him, first in his nightmares after the war ended and he had returned to Wisconsin. And then, as a gnawing ache that wouldn’t let go until he gave his notice to the Milwaukee Police Department and hopped a train to the coast. Yes, a short stint in Vice, and then he would be on to better things. He’d be making $464 a month, one dollar and eighty-two cents per hour after taxes, social security and his contribution to the Widow’s Fund were taken out.
And all he had to do was sit at the bar and wait for someone to ask him home.
Though sodomy was a felony that could carry a life sentence in California, none of that would even come into play this evening, he had been assured during training. Section 647 of the Penal Code prohibited soliciting a lewd act. A misdemeanor. A vag-lewd rap.
A sudden gust of dry wind lashed at his face, and he closed his eyes against grit flung upward from the sidewalk. It had always been a dirty city, that hadn’t changed. Bits of litter squabbled in the gutter, and the front page of a tattered tabloid darted up and pressed against his ankle, then was swept away. He had seen the scandal sheet earlier that evening: an obviously doctored photo of a city councilman and a sultry blonde B-movie actress cropped in the shape of a heart below the masthead, and the blazing headline proclaiming the two had run off to a secret love nest in Mexico. The whole city was talking about it.
As he approached the bar, his stomach didn’t feel right, and he drew deeper on his cigarette, as if that might soothe him, exhaling a plume of smoke through his nostrils. He tossed the spent cigarette into the street and quickly lit another.
Blake hesitated at the door, gazing up at the neon sign above, momentarily mesmerized as the yellow glow played on his face. He couldn’t tell if the bird was supposed to be flying, or just trying to escape his cage.
Music drifted through the closed door. Now it was rock and roll. He recognized the song by a singer who was raising a ruckus with young girls—the one who sounded like a Negro—and had been popping up on The Ed Sullivan Show.
He took one last drag—forgetting he had just lit the cigarette—flicked it in the gutter, and stepped inside. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness of the bar, a lazy pall of smoke hanging in the air and softening the shadows. The establishment was filled with well-dressed gentlemen, alone and chattering in groups; at first, it seemed like any other after-work spot, most of the men in suits and ties, a few more casual. An ordinary layout: a pool table to the right, a brightly lit juke box opposite, and beyond the crowd of men, a liquor bar and stools at the far end. A bit better heeled, perhaps, than the cop bars he’d frequented in Milwaukee.
But then something happened he wasn’t so used to. He felt every eye in the bar drift his way, assessing him in a manner that was hard to define; a bold stare, then the gaze shifted away. There had been a lot of that during the war, in commissaries, in the barracks, in the holds of aircraft carriers, in the open shower stalls at the Y. Eyes that lingered, then drifted.
His face felt suddenly hot and the room overbearingly oppressive. He found himself avoiding the glances of the men he passed and headed straight for the men’s room. His training had led him to think this would be easy, but now that he was here, inside the bar, he felt something strangely like panic. The can was in an alcove off the far end of the bar counter, next to a side door that led to the alley.
Blake was relieved to find himself alone in the bathroom. He splashed water in his face at the sink and patted his cheeks on the revolving cloth towel from the wall dispenser.
He gazed into the small mirror. A crack, snaking diagonally across the glass, seemed to separate his head from his body in a disturbing way. He had never liked the way he looked—seeing too much of his father in his square jaw and wide-set eyes that seemed too dark to be blue—but others seemed to differ, and he had noticed people’s admiring glances since the days he played football in high school. His hair was black and wavy—sometimes to the point of unruly—and an unrepentant curl often looped down on his forehead that no amount of Brylcreem could keep in place.
He was a lot older now than when he’d last been in L.A., nearly thirty. He’d been a kid back then—with fake papers to get him into the Navy—but tall and broad and scrappy enough to convince his commanders he belonged there.
Jack Spencer had been young, too, just a few years older. His terrible death still haunted him for so many reasons. His death, and the long, hot train ride to Barstow, where Blake told lies to Jack’s parents, maybe the best thing he had ever done. They had been kind people with hurt in their eyes, and he’d wondered at how different Jack’s childhood must have been from his, in this small desert town surrounded by brothers and sisters.
His own mother was barely a memory, the Ivory soap she smelled of long after she bathed him, the flowered cotton apron she wore in the kitchen when baking him brownies. And after she was gone, only his father, always with a bottle; he’d seen him only once upon his return from the war.
When he went back into the barroom, nobody seemed to notice him. He found an empty stool at the far end of the bar near the restroom and sat down. He glanced around casually as he waited for the bartender, who stood at the other end of the counter mixing a drink, to fill his order.
Idly he wondered why his training officers had chosen this particular bar. There were so many along this strip, like the Crown Jewel, with its neon crown above the front door and a strict coat and tie dress code. Maxwell’s, near Pershing Square, with its unsavory crowd of self-pitying drunks, shrieking queens and young studs looking for an extra dollar and a place to sleep for the night. And further west, the bars on La Brea, lots of them, and the Pink Poodle on Pico and the Red Raven on Melrose. He’d heard about them all in training. His eyes came to rest on a cage hung above the bar, fluttering with yellow canaries.
“I think it’s sad, keeping them like that, stuck in a smoky room. They ought to be out, making things more beautiful in the world.”
Blake turned to the speaker, who was sitting on the next stool, noticing him for the first time. He was slight, somewhere in his thirties, nattily dressed in a crisp business suit, his hat lying beside his drink on the bar.
“My name’s Jim.” Blake offered a firm handshake. The man’s eyes brightened and he looked heartbreakingly glad someone was talking to him.
“Good to meet you, Charlie. Come here often?”
“Not so much. I’m not really a bar person, you see. I work downtown, with the Department of Transportation. Accounting. How about you?”
“I’m new in town,” Blake drawled. He remembered what he’d been taught. Be friendly. Engage them in conversation. Gain their confidence. Act like they’re the most interesting person in the world. Wait for the pass. Or any attempt at physical contact. “Still looking for work… and a place to stay.”
Maybe he had gone too far too fast, because the man swallowed nervously, an expression of longing on his face, as if he wanted to ask Blake home but didn’t dare hope, and looked away shyly.
Suddenly he felt sorry for the guy, and wondered if there was someone else, anyone else, he could snare. His eyes began to wander around the room, pausing on a figure who looked like none of the others, standing aloof, leaning in a dim corner by the juke box, the neck of a beer bottle gripped in one hand, his thumbs planted in the pockets of his Levi’s. He had on a skin-tight black T-shirt that showed off his narrow waist and muscular chest. His biceps were large and in the dimness Blake spotted a tattoo, something winged, like so many men got in the war. The man was pointedly ignoring everyone in the bar; when his eyes rose and he surveyed his surroundings, it was as though he saw through them. Trade, Blake thought.
A queeny young man who appeared underage kept passing by the man, looking him up and down in undisguised admiration. The boy’s shirttails were tied in a knot at his abdomen like a calypso dancer, and his pastel lavender Capri pants could get him arrested on the street.
The man in the black T-shirt continued his pose of utter indifference, but that didn’t seem to deter the kid. Through the fog of smoke and milling bar customers, the boy seemed to sense he was being watched and caught Blake looking his way. He tilted his blond head, his eyes narrowing, his mouth forming a frown.
Blake turned away. He didn’t want to arrest a kid. Finally the bartender approached, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up, and asked for his order.
“Draft beer would be fine.”
“You got it.”
The bartender nodded, looking him over in something akin to recognition, and went down the bar. Just then, the kid in the calypso shirt leaned over the bar and spoke to the bartender in a hissing tone, glancing over at Blake. There was a knowing smirk on the young man’s face, and Blake couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard the words, “Hollywood Reject.”
The bartender didn’t seem to need a moment to think about what he’d been told; he went directly to a high shelf behind the bar, rather ceremoniously picked up a glass, and filled it from a tap and set it on the counter before Blake. Blake couldn’t be sure, but he thought a murmur arose from the crowd behind him. To Charlie, the bartender said, rather pointedly, “Can I refresh your drink?” He gazed down at the slight man and subtly—so subtly Blake wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t alert—shook his head at him, warning.
Charlie swallowed and blinked, and looked over at Blake, his eyes suddenly filled with anxiety.
“Oh,” he said, in almost a whisper.
Blake peered down at the dry glass in front of him and realized he had been made. Glancing down the bar, he saw all the other glasses were dewy with condensation, taken from a refrigerated box under the bar.
The music on the juke box had stopped and the room was strangely quiet. He looked around and was struck by the realization that everyone in the bar was watching him. Not directly, but out of the corners of their eyes. Waiting. He had seen that look before, like cattle in a slaughterhouse. Several men broke from their friends and headed for the front door, putting their hats on before they got outside.
Charlie swiveled toward him, as if to get off his stool, panic written on his face. He lost his balance and his knee touched Blake’s and his right palm landed briefly on Blake’s shoulder.
It was enough.
Blake slid his badge and identification onto the bar beside his glass. “You’re under arrest,” he announced. “I want you to get up quietly and follow me. Do you understand?”
Charlie nodded, but he couldn’t seem to stand on his own, and Blake had to grip his arm with both hands to keep him from collapsing.
The bar patrons stared at them, openly now, and there was something in their gaze Blake hadn’t seen before, and it wasn’t the look of cattle. Suddenly he felt unsafe. The front door appeared way too far to him and the path too crowded, so Blake pulled Charlie past the restroom and to the side door.
The door slammed shut behind them, and when nobody followed, the sense of alarm Blake had felt just moments before quickly dissipated. A stale wind blew down the dark cobblestone alley lined with dumpsters overflowing with garbage. It brought a fetid smell to his nostrils and he could feel slick grease on the stones under his feet. One direction led to utter darkness, the other, the lights and traffic of Fifth Street a dozen or so yards away. A scattering of stars rose overhead.
Charlie collapsed to his knees, clinging to Blake’s legs. “Please,” he begged. “Please don’t do this.” He looked up pleadingly.
“It’s just a vag-lewd charge,” Blake said gruffly. “You pay the fine and you forget it.”
“I’ll lose my job,” he whimpered. “I’ll lose everything.”
Blake looked toward Fifth helplessly and wished he could just get out of this stinking alley.
The grip of Charlie’s hands tightened on his slacks. “I’ll have to register for the rest of my life. I won’t be able to get another job.”
“Not if you plead.” He wasn’t actually sure of that, but he felt a strange need to reassure this slight little man who had looked at him with such longing minutes before.
“Please,” Charlie whispered. He looked up at Blake and light from Fifth Street glinted on his darkened face, catching the tears welling in his eyes.
Blake was getting annoyed now. His training officers would be wondering what was taking him so long, and that sick feeling in his stomach had come back. “Look,” he said, shaking his head, “it’s just the way things are.”
Then Charlie’s entire body began to shake. Blake had seen grown men cry before, in the war, in battle, but not like this. His whole body seemed to convulse as he clung to Blake’s legs, and a deep sound came from his throat, an eerie wail that floated in the darkness all around them.
“Aw, c’mon. Get up.”
Charlie shook his head, silent now, cowering at his feet.
“You knew what you were doing, coming here.”
“I’ll never come back here again. I promise.”
Blake sighed. His mouth was dry and more than anything he needed a cigarette. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he found his Chesterfield pack and lit up. He tossed the match on the ground.
He looked to the far end of the alley, lost in darkness, a darkness pure and deep. He could let him go, he thought. Just let him walk into the night. No one would know. Tell Sergeant Hollings and Detective Ryan there had been no nibbles tonight. Try as he might, he couldn’t get any of the fruits to make a pass. He wasn’t cut out for it. He must not have whatever they were looking for. Then he could just up and quit this job and forget the whole thing, forget the assessing eyes that lingered, the smoke hanging low, the hot oppressiveness of the bar, forget that ache that had brought him back here in the first place. Just hop the next train to Wisconsin and crawl on his knees to get his old job back.
He sighed again, exhaling a plume of smoke.
Charlie looked up at him hopefully. His voice croaked. “Please?”
Then Blake heard something in the opposite direction, perhaps the backfire of an engine, and he turned his head and saw the unmarked Plymouth crawling down Fifth. It stopped there, at the entrance to the alley, and through the windshield he could see Hollings and Ryan gazing at them and knew his decision had already been made for him.
Paul Winters loved their nights out with the girls.
He grinned and winked at David across the table in the Roman Room of the Biltmore Hotel. David took a sip of wine and grinned back at him. Earlier that evening they had picked up Jeannie and Pat, Jeannie sitting across from him in the front seat of his Ford, Pat with David in the back, just like a real double date. They had joined a dozen of their crowd at a long table under wrought iron chandeliers in the Pompeii-inspired sunken dining room and to all intents and purposes they appeared to be a group of married couples sitting side-by-side enjoying a night on the town.
After a toast to Paul for winning another high-profile case and sending a Sunset Strip gangster to life in prison for the killing of a mobster rival, the conversation turned to the other headline everybody was talking about. City Councilman Bullock had run off with a starlet named Victoria Lynn and they were reportedly holed up in a love nest in Tijuana.
Paul had seen her in supporting roles in several films—she made at least three a year—and remembered her as a rather stiff blonde beauty. Jeannie, who worked as a make-up artist at Universal and knew all the Hollywood gossip, was holding court.
“It’s all a big lie,” she announced breathlessly. She had a shiny turned-up little nose, bouncy auburn hair, and a petite frame. Paul had brought her as his date for last year’s Christmas party at the D.A.’s Office, and they’d had a big laugh together when everybody said what a great couple they were. “None of it even happened. It couldn’t have happened.”
Parker Huston, two seats down, leaned his chubby torso forward in his seat, his cheeks red from a bit too much to drink, and picked up a steak knife as if readying himself for battle. He rarely suffered being wrong about anything regarding movies or the film industry’s social scene. The fact that he worked as a librarian and had no connections whatsoever in Hollywood or to movie stars was beside the point. “Now, dear, how is that possible? It was in Confidential, and everybody knows that particular publication has spies everywhere and pays for information.”
Pat suddenly came to attention. Nobody—especially Parker—was going to question her girlfriend’s credentials on anything Hollywood. Or maybe she was just wrangling for a fight because her high heels fit too tightly. She had looked so miserable in full make-up, a frilly dress and a stole that evening, instead of the jeans and checkered shirt she usually wore for her landscaping business, that Paul felt sorry for her. Even her short hair, usually straight and the color of straw, had a limp wave in it. Everybody had been instructed to make a big fuss about how good she looked, but Paul just saw a boy forced into drag.
David had known Jeannie for quite a while through his political activities and a homophile magazine the two volunteered at, but the girls had become close to them only after a frantic call in the night from Jeannie that Pat had been arrested for masquerading. Paul had quietly advised her attorney that the late nineteenth-century law against wearing the apparel of the opposite sex had been ruled unconstitutional in 1950—despite the fact that vice officers continued to use the statute to arrest men and women whose clothing violated gender norms. Pat had been released the next day.
“Go ahead,” Pat urged, eyes shining, “Tell them. Tell them about Victoria Lynn.”
Jeannie glanced around at the surrounding tables to make sure no one was listening, then bent low in a conspiratorial whisper. “She’s a Lizabeth Scott, if you know what I mean.”
That caused a buzz around the table, and Paul crooked his head at David quizzically.
In response, David grinned and cupped his hand to the side of his cheek and mouthed the word dyke.
Then Paul remembered. A nasty exposé in Confidential the year before had sent Scott’s career into freefall. According to the tabloid, her name and number had been found in the top secret address book of a madam who provided a stable of gorgeous blondes to male—and female—stars.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Parker put in, clearly trying to wrestle back control of the conversation. “The most glamorous stars are. Dietrich, Hepburn, Garbo…”
“You think everybody in Hollywood is,” David said.
“I think everybody is, because…” Parker replied, refilling his glass, “everybody is.”
“Victoria Lynn is a goddess” Pat announced. “I love that woman! And she’s one of us.”
“Don’t get her started on Victoria Lynn or we’ll be here all night,” Jeannie warned. Her lower lip pouted. “I’m totally jealous.” But Paul noticed the two women were playing footsy all the while under the table.
The maitre d’ brought a note to David, who read it silently, frowned, glanced up at Paul, squinted his eyes meaningfully, then rose and excused himself. Paul watched as David made his way across the restaurant, past the standing filigreed candelabra, and into the main lobby. He wondered what he was going to do about David. He was so adorable, and they had such a great time together, but he was way too young for the deputy district attorney. Just out of college, and the seven year age difference was a huge gap in maturity and sensibility. Despite David’s rather conservative Jewish upbringing, he could be impulsive—and indiscreet—and that was dangerous in a lot of ways. And the political stuff… just this evening on their way to pick up the girls he’d carped about how wrong it was that they had to pretend to be Normals—as David called them—in order to be welcomed in a group in restaurants and nightclubs.
“But you love going out with Jeannie and Pat!” Paul had pointed out.
“That’s not the point!” David had groaned.
Paul took a Marlboro pack from his pocket, lit up, and laid the red-and-white box beside his wine glass.
Pat began to sing melodiously, “You get a lot to like, filter, flavor, flip-top box!” mimicking the commercials on TV.
Parker added his two cents worth, only after making sure the waiter was beyond hearing range. “Oh, my, my. You do know, Mr. Marlboro Man, Mr. Paragon of Masculinity, Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome, Mr. Future District Attorney, back in the twenties that particular cigarette was originally marketed to women… and nelly queens. The slogan back then was ‘Mild as May!’”
“It’s poison,” Jeannie said disgustedly. “Did you read that article in Reader’s Digest?”
“That’s what the filter’s for,” Paul countered, grinning good-naturedly, and tapping an ash into a glass tray at the center of the table. “It’s to keep all that muck from going into your lungs.”
Parker’s eyebrows rose theatrically. “You do realize that filter used to have a red band printed around it… to hide lipstick stains?”
“Only you would remember that,” Paul said. “From experience, no doubt.”
“I know what I know, and once a cigarette for nelly queens, always a cigarette for nelly queens, no matter the packaging.”
Paul noticed David had returned to the dining room, but was hesitating by the door, signaling to him, and he knew by the expression on his face that something was wrong. Here we go again, he thought.
He put his cigarette pack back in his jacket pocket, and said, “Excuse me.”
“If you’re planning a jaunt across the street to Pershing Square, count me in!” Parker quipped, taking a sip of wine.
Paul crossed the room quickly and found David in a state of agitation. He’d seen him like this before, and knew what was to come. He couldn’t help but be a little annoyed.
“I got a message from Billy,” David began excitedly. “I think it sat at the front desk for about an hour because they weren’t sure where I was seated. A fellow was arrested at a bar downtown tonight and taken to Lincoln Heights. I just called the jail…”
Paul glanced at his watch wearily. It was getting late and it had been a long exhausting day. All he really wanted to do was go home and climb into bed with David. He felt that spike of resentment he got every time his boyfriend pressured him to get involved in these situations. He couldn’t help everybody. It didn’t look good at the D.A.’s Office: so far nobody had asked any questions, but he never knew when his interference might get noticed and come back to haunt him. And, anyway, he had only so much influence in cases like this. “What does he want? Legal advice?”
“No,” David said. “He’s dead.”
LAMBDA LITERARY AWARD FINALIST FOR BEST MYSTERY
Los Angeles, 1956. It’s a dangerous time to be gay. Nobody knows that better than closeted prosecutor Paul Winters, the rising star in the L.A. District Attorney’s office. But when the police insist a gay man arrested for soliciting committed suicide in custody–and Paul knows it was murder–he risks everything to uncover the truth. Thrown together with a strikingly handsome vice cop with a dark past, the two men race to expose a conspiracy at the highest levels of government that threatens to tear the city apart. THE YELLOW CANARY is the first book in The L.A. AFTER MIDNIGHT Quartet, a four-book four-decade spanning saga of gay life from the 1950s to the 1980s in the City of Angels. The second book in the series, THE BLACK CAT, is also available.
Author, Steve Neil Johnson
Steve is the author of the bestselling Doug Orlando mysteries, FINAL ATONEMENT (Lambda Literary Award finalist for Best Mystery) and FALSE CONFESSIONS. The books grew out of his experiences working for the District Attorney of Brooklyn. His other books include the occult thriller THIS ENDLESS NIGHT, the young adult novel RAISING KANE, and the middle-grade book (under the pseudonym Rathbone Ravenford) EVERYBODY HATES
EDGAR ALLAN POE! He was honored by ONE/National Gay & Lesbian Archives for his contributions to gay literature. He is a longtime resident of Los Angeles, where he is writing his four-book four-decade spanning saga of gay life from the 1950s to the 1980s, The L.A. AFTER MIDNIGHT Quartet. The first book in the series, THE YELLOW CANARY, was a Lambda Literary Award finalist for Best Mystery. THE BLACK CAT is the second book in the series and THE BLUE PARROT the third book. Steve is currently writing the forth book in the L.A. AFTER MIDNIGHT Quartet.
When I came across Grant Michaels’s first novel, A Body to Dye For, at Now Voyager in Provincetown, I plunked down my nine bucks and snatched it right up. I took it back to my little room above the guest house on Commercial Street where I worked for $75 a week, plus room and board, and, with a bag full of salt-water taffy, devoured it and the candy in one long, lazy October afternoon.
Excerpt of Love You to Death
I sat for a long time with my eyes
closed, letting the white noise of the surf lull me into a state of alpha
consciousness. Awake in a dream, I sensed someone approaching me, and I happily
assumed it was my lively subconscious, once again beckoning my incubus.
However, rather than ravish me as usual, my loving other-self decided to speak
to me this time.
“Did you like the chocolate?” he asked,
with a French accent.
I opened my eyes and turned my head. The
sun blinded me for a moment, but I could still make out Rafik, in all his tall,
handsome glory. He was wearing a grey warm-up suit, without an overcoat or
jacket. The wind caused the soft flannel to hug his body and reveal a slender,
well-formed physique, much like a dancer’s.
“Hi,” I said, perhaps too
enthusiastically. “I figured you had sent it.”
“You did not like?” His eyelids drooped
“I took it to the police to have it
checked for poison.”
“Ah, non, I
will not poison you.” Then, with an inviting smile, he asked, “You are coming
to see me?”
“I came to see Prentiss Kingsley. I’m
curious why you’re here though.”
“I am here with Dunny.”
“And Mr. Kingsley? Is he here too?”
With a wink Rafik shook his head no. What
a charmer! It could be easy
say yes to any demand of his.
I began, “I just wanted to, uh …” Control
your yapper, Stanislav. Don’t
this gorgeous man you came here to warn Prentiss Kingsley that someone is
trying to kill him. “I wanted to plan a little surprise for Liz and Danny, so I
thought Prentiss could help me with it. But don’t tell Dan, okay?”
“We have secret then?”
“Yeah, that’s right. A secret.”
“So maybe we can have one more secret?”
he asked with a sly look.
“What do you mean?”
“You like to go to bed?” He pushed his
right hand up under his sweatshirt, lifting it slightly so that I could watch
him caress his taut belly and finger the short, black hair there. Damn! Why was
this guy so interested in me, first at the party, now out here by the ocean?
“What about Danny?” I asked.
“Dunny? He’s not home.”
“But aren’t you two …?”
Rafik shook his head no. “We are not
“But you just said he’s not here,” I
said, trying to get his story straight.
“Yes, he is not. I work at his company,
driving the truck, you know?”
“Yes, I know, but does that qualify you
to stay at his summer place, in the middle of winter?”
“Oh, sure.” His hand pushed the jacket up
further to show a well-formed pectoral. “So you want to go inside?”
“I would like to get warm.”
“I have good idea,” he said, and suddenly
peeled off his sweatshirt. His muscular chest had a neatly trimmed, fan-shaped
mat of coarse hair, clipped short and bristly. The cold air set it all on end,
and the rest of his skin also went bumpy in the breeze. His nipples greeted the
frigid air with a perky salute through the dark hair. “Come,” he said, and
undid his sweatpants as well. He jogged away from me, then stopped momentarily
to pull off the sweatpants, leaving only his robin’s-egg-blue jockstrap. I was
right. He did look like a dancer, and he moved like one too, as though this
were all a familiar sequence of steps rehearsed and performed many times
before. But I’ll confess, his furry limbs sure were appealing against the
patchy snow. He turned toward me and beckoned. “We go to bed now.” He ran
toward the solarium attached to the back of the big house.
Being a lonely pile of flesh and bones,
I’d be a fool to pass up a chance like that. I got up from the bench and headed
toward the house, picking up Rafik’s discarded clothing along the way— already
the wife. As I got near the house, Dan Doherty emerged from the pathway that
led around from the front of the house.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he
demanded. Then he saw Rafik’s near-naked body entering the solarium, while I
stood there holding his clothes. Dan frowned and said, “Figures you’d get your
way with him, Vannos.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, irritated but
resigned. “I’m used to it. He’s good for nothing.” Dan watched Rafik waving
energetically from inside the solarium. “I take that back. Rafik is certainly
good for one thing.”
“Danny, I didn’t come here to have sex
with him. I came to talk to Prentiss and you. I even tried to find you at your
place last night. I’ve got some unpleasant news, I’m afraid.”
“Vannos, you can cut the crap. You don’t
need an excuse to have sex with Rafik. Really, it’s ‘anything goes’ out here in
“I’m not making excuses, Danny. And you
can call me Stan now. Vannos is okay in the shop, but this has nothing to do
with the shop.”
His face relaxed slightly. “You mean it,
don’t you?” he said with less anger in
his voice. “You’re serious.”
“Yes, this is serious.”
“We’d better go inside then.”
We walked by the solarium. Rafik stood
within, exposed and appealing in his glass cage. Cripes, I’d just about got my
sludgy juices moving again, and yet again I had to interrupt the flow. I don’t
know why my parents didn’t just name me
Inside the house Dan removed his
down-filled parka and hung it in a fastidiously organized closet. “Take your
coat off, get comfortable,” he said. I dropped my jacket on a chair, but Danny
picked it up and hung it—arranged it—alongside his in the closet—ever the
designer. Then he led me into a large, bright room with numerous bay windows,
complete with window seats and chintz-covered cushions, all facing out onto the
bluff and the ocean beyond. The fireplace was blazing, even though it was
Through one of the front windows I saw
Danny’s car, easily identified by the vanity plates: D D D E S I G N .
Danny flopped himself onto one of the
sofas. I sat in a high-armed chair that enveloped me luxuriously as the down-filled
cushions wheezed out their air. “Is Prentiss here?” I asked.
“No,” he said, reclining and stretching
himself out provocatively. I hoped it wasn’t for my benefit.
“Danny, it’s important that you both hear
this. Will you promise to tell him?”
“Depends.” His eyes seemed to be
flirting, and I soon recognized a behavior pattern that I’d often seen with
other couples: Love my spouse, love me.
I said, “Depends isn’t good enough,
Danny. I found out something about the poisoned chocolate that killed that man
the other night.”
“The one Laurett Cole gave to her
“That’s the point. It was a mistake. The
truffle that killed that guy was intended for Prentiss Kingsley.”
A Stan Kraychik Mystery, Book 2 — Valentine’s Day is fast approaching and everyone has a sweetheart, except Stan Kraychik, Boston’s sassiest hairdresser. Ever hopeful of meeting Mr. Right, Stan attends a gala reception that culminates in a death by poisoning, and romantic problems take a back seat to murder. Then Boston police arrest Stan’s friend Laurett Cole, who leaves her four-year-old son in Stan’s care. In his quest to free Laurett from suspicion and himself from his ill-mannered ward, Stan finds himself exploring the secrets of a revered Boston institution, the Gladys Gardner Chocolate Company. There, along with the sweet edibles, he finds an assortment of not-so-delectable murder.
A Lambda Literary Awards Finalist in 1993, this edition includes a new 2019 foreword by Frank W. Butterfield.