Category: Fiction

Enjoy!

 
Rexall Shaul lifted a hand to his head.

What the hell happened?

He didn’t remember pain like this since he was a kid and fell full on his nuts on the balance beam. He crumpled and slid off, unable to breathe or think. Coach sat him on the gym’s hardwood floor, legs extended in front in a V, lifted him by the armpits about a foot off the ground and dropped him.

Had to do it several times before his balls dropped back to where they were supposed to be.

Jesus Fucking Christ who took a hammer to his car?

He ran his hand over the buckled roof.

Who the fuck would do this?

To his car!

And there was blood everywhere.

And what was this? Down by a left rear tire?

Which was blown open like a burst balloon, by the way.

And nobody stocked those custom rims local. They’d have to be shipped up from Florida.

Fuck it. That’s what FedEx was for.

Oh, Christ, it was a human hand. Holding a mobile.

He hadn’t seen anything like this since he worked for JAWBREAKER in Bosnia. He trained terrorists in bomb making using mobiles as detonators. Stupid sonsabitches kept forgetting to set conferencing, blocking, and waiting options. Some idiot would misdial a number, ring the mobile before everything was set and there goes two weeks of training and the morons you just taught.

Finally had to get Blackwater to run an NAO honk TXT message board with everything coded as camel racing results.

Even then every time their postings were late he wondered if some towelheaded dirt digger screwed up and another asset was adding to the city’s dust.

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Previous entries in The Alibi (A John Chance Mystery)

Enjoy!

 
Tony Morelli let his car roll forward to a patch of pavement clear of onlookers and reached over the center console to the Impala’s glove compartment.

Ed Vox’ booted feet snapped against the car’s floorboards as he pushed himself back into the passenger seat. “Brake!”

Morelli’s eyes returned to the road. A pudgy-faced, middle-aged, overweight man, long black greasy-looking hair, wraparound Ray-bans and needing a shave stopped in front of the Impala, and stared at Vox. His Arrest-Me-Red jogging suit, white racing stripe up the right leg and continuing on to the ill-fitting jersey top, gave him a bad “Saturday beer and burgers football with the boys” look.

Morelli stopped and honked his horn.

The man cocked his head and continued to stare at Vox. Every few seconds he’d quickly shake his head as if gnats encircled him.

Morelli pointed. “Is that Ron Jeremy and is he refusing to move?”

Vox blinked. “He’s not refusing, he’s remembering, shaking a memory loose.” He opened the glovebox. “What do you need?”

Morelli’s gaze went from the man to Vox. “How do you know that?” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a badge, lowered his window, and called to an idle patrolman watching the crowd. “Officer? A little assistance, please?”

Ron Jeremy scratched his head as the officer approached.

Vox nodded the man then at the crowds and emergency vehicles. “Must be the government plates. How long ago did this happen?”

Morelli held his shield up for the officer and pointed. “Mind removing Ron Jeremy from our path and telling the rest of the BPD we’re coming through?” He turned back to Vox. “And unh-uh. He’s staring at you, not the car. This went down about an hour ago. Came while I was on my way in. You were on the way.”

“Convenient. You plan it that way? And Ron Jeremy the porn star?” He took a long second look. “Yeah, kind of. I guess.”

The officer looked at the man who hadn’t stopped staring and shook his head as he shuffled towards him.

Morelli watched. “There’s a Federal ID in a plastic sheet in there. Mind handing it over?”

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Previous entries in The Alibi (A John Chance Mystery)

I didn’t get much writing done in November. For the first time since pre-Covid, I was doing booksignings, talking about writing, the usual marketing stuff. The holidays came and went and we were busy with those. Also preparing Search for release (the second-round print format is on my desk for review. still waiting for the final cover).

In short, busy.

But I did lots of pissing and moaning about The Alibi in November, mostly to myself, some to others. Lots of plotting and strategizing. Realized a plot point isn’t going to work last night, going to take it out this morning.

Don’t worry, it about twenty chapters from where you are now. You’ll never notice it’s absence. I hope.

Anyway, on with the show!

Enjoy!

 
Cranston nodded at the crowd control officers who waved him through the gawkers, news crews, and internet-wannabes shoving and jumping with mobiles in hand. He spotted Rhinehold moving slowly through the crowd, alternately TXTing and talking on his mobile, and generally paying no attention to anything but the emergency services vehicles, triage units, and crowd control. Once or twice Cranston saw Rhinehold dip his head towards some people pointing at the destruction and talking but otherwise paying attention to nothing at all.

Cranston nodded. Yeah, Marete was right. Tonto handled this kind of undercover pretty well.

Go figure.

Cranston walked up behind a petite woman covered head to foot in a white Tyvek forensics suit. “Mary Frances.”

The petite woman turned, removed her right glove, her mask, offered him her hand and smiled. “William.”

“What’s a good looking woman like you doing at a crime scene like this?”

Mary Frances kept her eyes on Cranston and nodded in Rhinehold’s direction. “Today’s Tonto?”

Cranston snickered. “John Rhinehold. Shall I introduce you?”

“Won’t that blow his cover?”

Cranston watched forensics personnel come and go from SkyHook’s garage. “When will you be able to talk?”

“Maybe five, ten minutes. They know what to do. I’m just here for the unexpected.”

“Buy you a coffee?”

“Large double-double. And from the coffee shop around the corner, not from Starschmucks.”

“Meet you there.”

Cranston sat on a concrete bench outside the coffee shop, a large double-double and a bag containing a single maple-cream donut beside him.

Rhinehold ambled up with an iced something-or-other from the same shock and sat on the other end of the bench. He took a few experimental sips and tossed his cup in a floral pattern painted city trash can a few feet from where they sat. “Should’ve stuck with real coffee.”

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Previous entries in The Alibi (A John Chance Mystery)