by J. L. Abramo
Circling the Runway
Brooklyn Justice
By Trey R. Barker
2,000 Miles to Open Road
Road Gig: A Novella
Exit Blood
Death is Not Forever
No Harder Prison
By Richard Barre
The Innocents
Bearing Secrets
Christmas Stories
The Ghosts of Morning
Blackheart Highway
Burning Moon
Echo Bay
Lost
By Eric Beetner (editor)
Unloaded (*)
By Eric Beetner and JB Kohl
Over Their Heads
By Eric Beetner and Frank Scalise
The Backlist
The Shortlist (*)
By G. J. Brown
Falling (*)
By Rob Brunet
Stinking Rich
By Milton T. Burton
Texas Noir
By Dana Cameron (editor)
Murder at the Beach: Bouchercon Anthology 2014
By Eric Campbell (editor)
Down, Out and Dead
By Stacey Cochran
Eddie & Sunny (TP only)
By Mark Coggins
No Hard Feelings
By Angel Luis Colon
No Happy Endings (*)
By Jen Conley
Cannibals and Other Stories (*)
By Tom Crowley
Viper’s Tail
Murder in the Slaughterhouse
By Frank De Blase
Pine Box for a Pin-Up
Busted Valentines and Other Dark Delights
A Cougar’s Kiss (*)
By Les Edgerton
The Genuine, Imitation, Plastic Kidnapping
By A.C. Frieden
Tranquility Denied
The Serpent’s Game
The Pyongyang Option (*)
By Jack Getze
Big Numbers
Big Money
Big Mojo
Big Shoes
By Keith Gilman
Bad Habits
By Richard Godwin
Wrong Crowd
Buffalo and Sour Mash (*)
By William Hastings (editor)
Stray Dogs: Writing from the Other America
By Jeffery Hess
Beachhead
By Matt Hilton
No Going Back
Rules of Honor
The Lawless Kind
The Devil’s Anvil (*)
By Naomi Hirahara, Kate Thornton & Jeri Westerson (editors)
Ladies’ Night
By Terry Holland
An Ice Cold Paradise
Chicago Shiver
By Darrel James, Linda O. Johsonton & Tammy Kaehler (editors)
Last Exit to Murder
By David Housewright & Renée Valois
The Devil and the Diva
By David Housewright
Finders Keepers
Full House
By Jon Jordan
Interrogations
By Jon & Ruth Jordan (editors)
Murder and Mayhem in Muskego
Cooking with Crimespree
By Jerry Kennealy
Screen Test (*)
By S. W. Lauden
Crosswise
By Andrew McAleer & Paul D. Marks (editors)
Coast to Coast
By Terrence McCauley
The Devil Dogs of Belleau Wood
The Bank Heist (Editor) (*)
By Bill Moody
Czechmate: The Spy Who Played Jazz
The Man in Red Square
Solo Hand
The Death of a Tenor Man
The Sound of the Trumpet
Bird Lives!
Mood Swings (TP only)
By Gary Phillips
The Perpetrators
Scoundrels: Tales of Greed, Murder and Financial Crimes (editor)
Treacherous: Griffters, Ruffians and Killers
3 the Hard Way
By Gary Phillips, Tony Chavira, Manoel Magalhaes
Beat L.A. (Graphic Novel)
By Tom Pitts
Hustle (*)
By Robert J. Randisi
Upon My Soul
Souls of the Dead
Envy the Dead (*)
By Rob Riley
Thin Blue Line
By Linda Sands
3 Women Walk Into a Bar (TP only)
By Ryan Sayles
The Subtle Art of Brutality
Warpath
Swansongs Always Begin as Love Songs (*)
By John Shepphird
The Shill
Kill the Shill
Beware the Shill
By Anthony Neil Smith
Worm (TP only)
All the Young Warriors TP only)
Once a Warrior (TP only)
By Liam Sweeny
Welcome Back, Jack
By Art Taylor (editor)
Murder Under the Oaks: Bouchercon Anthology 2015
By Ian Thurman
Grand Trunk and Shearer (*)
By James Ray Tuck (editor)
Mama Said (*)
By Lono Waiwaiole
Wiley's Lament
Wiley's Shuffle
Wiley's Refrain
Dark Paradise
By George Williams
Inferno and Other Stories (*)
By Frank Zafiro and Lawrence Kelter
The Last Collar (*)
By Vincent Zandri
Moonlight Weeps
(*) Coming soon
Back to TOC
Here’s a sample from S.W. Lauden’s Crosswise.
QUEENS
Tommy Ruzzo had unlimited access to the evidence locker at the precinct. They never could prove that he took the blow, but his law enforcement career was over either way.
Shayna Billups had bleached blonde hair, long legs and a taste for cocaine. He accepted his fate and followed her all the way to Seatown, Florida. Ruzzo traded his NYPD badge for a golf cart and polo shirt.
He had never been to the Gulf before and was mesmerized by the white sand beaches and crystal clear water. The sweaty, tropical sex was good too.
The spell broke when the drug money ran out. He soon discovered the only job he could get was as a security guard at Precious Acres Retirement Community. She left him shortly after he collected his first meager paycheck. An ex-husband named Randy Liddell emerged from the swamps and carried her off.
That was three months ago. Ruzzo got promoted to Head of Security earlier this week, two days after his thirty-second birthday.
He was currently standing over a dead body on the bocce ball court outside the Precious Acres community center. Yesterday’s edition of the Seatown Sentinel was placed squarely on the victim’s chest. It was open to the crossword puzzle, but only the answer to one across was filled in: QUEENS.
Jesse Lee Cavanaugh, the groundskeeper who made the discovery, was leaning on a rake next to Ruzzo. In his early sixties, Cavanaugh was tall and thin with a pronounced beer belly that made him look like a recently fed snake. The bridge of his nose had been flattened a long time ago, giving him a prizefighter’s profile.
“Happens all the time. They move down here from New York and just drop dead. I say good riddance.”
Ruzzo’s body tensed. He was five-foot-eight but stocky, with a nervous energy that made him look like a loaded spring. A late bloomer, he spent his childhood on the streets of Queens fighting off nicknames like “Little Man” and “Tiny Tommy.”
He finally sprouted a few crucial inches in his late teens, but never got anywhere near his dream height of six feet. Shayna liked to call him “Little Bear” because he had a hairy chest and snored when he slept. She was the only one who ever got away with using the word “little” when describing him.
The groundskeeper was looking down on him at the moment, trying to backtrack in a grumbly drawl.
“No offense, of course.”
Ruzzo lifte
d his hand and wiped the sweat from his neck. Strands of his thick, black hair were plastered to his forehead thanks to the unforgiving humidity. He saw the lightning flash and dance from the corner of his eye, and waited a few seconds for the rumbling, summer thunder.
“Not many of them drop dead because their throats were slashed.”
Cavanaugh pushed his straw hat back and squinted to take a closer look.
“I’ll be damned. You’re right.”
Somebody had gone to a lot of trouble to pull the tongue down the victim’s throat and out through the gaping wound. Ruzzo found the effect equally gruesome and clownish.
“I haven’t seen anything that bat shit crazy since I was on the force. What do you know about Mr. Geratti?”
He motioned to the body at their feet. Cavanaugh spit at the ground.
“He was cantankerous, like all the rest of them. Terrible sense of humor.”
“Nice. Happen to know what he did for a living before he retired down here?”
“No, but if I had to guess I’d say he was probably in the mob, or worked on Wall Street. Something like that. Wait a minute, maybe he ran a deli?”
“You might want to update your clichés. A lot has happened in New York since the sixties.”
“You guys don’t have delis up there anymore? I’ll be damned.”
Ruzzo shot him a look. Cavanaugh was his neighbor, and they frequented the same bar downtown. In other words, he was the closest thing that Ruzzo had to a friend. It was another testament to the fact that Ruzzo hadn’t been very social since Shayna left. Most nights he was satisfied with an old movie and a new bottle. Last night was no exception.
It must be something about the weather here in Florida. I never drank this much in New York.
“So I take it you don’t know much about the victim?”
“Nope. Ain’t that your job?”
“Yes and no. I’m still pretty new, whereas you’ve worked here since the Reagan administration. Why not dazzle me with your knowledge of the residents?”
“Well, let me see. He mostly kept to himself, except for when they were out here playing bocce ball.”
“Who’s ‘they?’”
“Mr. Fava mostly, but Mr. Adamoli and Mr. Toma joined in now and again. They’d be out here for hours, smoking cigars and gabbing.”
“‘Gabbing’ about what?”
“Beats me. Whatever it is you old Italian guys gab about.”
“Easy now, I’m less than half their age. And yours too.”
“That so?”
Ruzzo caught Cavanaugh sizing him up with a raised eyebrow.
“Very funny. Sounds to me like this crew has known each other since before Florida.”
“Could be.”
“Good. We can start our investigation there.”
“Sure enough. Did you see the tire tracks?”
Ruzzo looked over to where Cavanaugh was pointing. A small patch of mud nearby was crisscrossed with deep, knobby grooves. A sure sign that some of the local juvenile delinquents had been here. They liked to pass through after school and on the weekends, to harass the residents and occasionally rob them. Ruzzo felt like an exterminator chasing those filthy vermin around Precious Acres.
“Those little bastards wouldn’t have the balls to do something like this.”
“If you say so, Bubba.”
Two Seatown police cruisers pulled up without fanfare. Four officers climbed out of the cars and ambled over to where Ruzzo and Cavanaugh stood. Three of them fell in line behind a tall man with a neatly trimmed mustache, mirrored sunglasses and a trooper hat. The name “Sgt. Badeaux” was stitched to his starched uniform.
Ruzzo had seen him around town a few times, but always tried to steer clear. He never wanted to look another cop in the face and explain how he ended up a security guard in Florida. He wasn’t exactly sure himself. Sgt. Badeaux walked straight up to the groundskeeper.
“Hey, Jesse Lee. What seems to be the problem?”
Ruzzo and Cavanaugh pointed to the corpse in unison. Sgt. Badeaux took a long look and started sniggering.
“If that don’t beat all.”
The other officers stepped around him and each took a look before quickly averting their eyes.
“Suppose we’ll have to call in the medical examiner.”
One of the officers scurried off. The other two stood at attention, clearly awaiting orders. Sgt. Badeaux bent down and grabbed the newspaper.
“Sentinel.”
He looked up at Ruzzo and Cavanaugh, as if for affirmation. The screaming headline at the top of the page was about the new steeple on one of the local churches. Ruzzo recoiled at the way the officer was mishandling the evidence. He tried to bite his tongue, but couldn’t stop from speaking up.
“I think we should—”
Sgt. Badeaux immediately rose to his full height and stepped straight into Ruzzo’s face. Ruzzo could smell the dipping tobacco that was packed tightly inside of the man’s lower lip. Small drops of dark brown saliva flung from his mouth as he growled.
“That’s funny. I don’t remember asking your opinion.”
Ruzzo stiffened his neck and tried to resist the impulse to break the sergeant’s nose with his forehead. That’s how he’d ended many similar confrontations during his four years on the force, and found it extremely effective. But that was Queens, and the people on the receiving end were usually street thugs and lowlifes. He knew what assaulting an officer would get him here. Jail time was the least of his worries.
The truth was that Ruzzo wasn’t even sure he had it in him. He could feel himself getting a little softer with every day he spent in Florida. The encroaching mellowness was starting to make him stir crazy.
“It’s your investigation...”
“Damn right.”
“...but I’d say this looks like a good old fashioned mob hit.”
“You from New York?”
“How’d you guess?”
“You all look the same.”
“Pot, kettle, black much?”
“Now you listen to me. You’re in Florida, and down here we don’t blame all of our problems on organized crime.”
Two officers stepped forward to escort Ruzzo outside of the yellow police tape that snapped in the gusting wind. Ruzzo shook himself free and headed straight for the golf cart. He stomped on the gas pedal and tried to speed away. The most he could manage was a small jerk that sent the sunglasses toppling from his own head. Cavanaugh picked them up and chased after him on foot. Ruzzo turned a corner and disappeared behind a row of topiary flamingos.
Ruzzo was deep in thought as he wound through the endless condominium blocks of Precious Acres. He hadn’t really considered returning to law enforcement, mostly because it never seemed like an option. But he guessed that whoever did this had some serious ties to New York. Maybe if he solved this murder he could return to the NYPD with his head held high. Shayna might even come around again once he was back in the uniform that caught her eye in the first place.
Or was it that evidence locker key that got her attention?
It was hard to say. What started out as a one-night stand turned into a long weekend. By Monday morning she was so strung out that a snort of cocaine was the only way to keep the party going. Shayna was officially his live-in girlfriend at the end of that first week. That’s when things really started getting out of control.
He had already taken more than an ounce by the time the next Saturday rolled around. Just a pinch here and there, week by week, and they were a kilo deep within three months. A lot of it went right up her nose, which paid dividends in the bedroom. She started selling the rest of it behind Ruzzo’s back at their favorite local bar. That’s when internal affairs came knocking.
Ruzzo was still kicking himself for being so stupid when he spotted two of Mr. Geratti’s friends playing chess in the park. A few of the local teens were just climbing onto their bikes and pedaling away from the gazebo where Mr. Fava and Mr. Toma sat. Ruzzo cr
anked the wheel to the left and bounced along over the grass. Neither of them looked up as he killed the engine and walked their way.
“Afternoon.”
The two older men grumbled, keeping their gaze on the board between them. Mr. Fava was short and round, with spidery red veins that spread across his cheeks. There was a heavy cane between his knees that he bounced lazily from side to side.
Mr. Toma was impossibly thin and sported a bushy gray mustache that seemed to originate from somewhere deep inside of his Roman nose. Both men wore loud tropical print shirts and straw pork pie hats.
Conversations in the South were always much slower than in New York, but the senior citizens at Precious Acres were the worst. Ruzzo tried to wait patiently while Mr. Toma considered his next move. A trembling hand finally rose up and brought the knight out into the middle of the board. Ruzzo noticed that a couple of Toma’s fingers were recently bandaged.
“Were those kids bothering you?”