Footsteps in the Dark

by Josh Lanyon

  Oh God, oh God, oh God. Please. Please help me.

  I don’t want to die.

  Dizzy from a head injury, feet slippery with my own blood, and waving my arms wildly for balance, I nevertheless sloshed with adrenaline. Looked like my old chemical pal had come to walk the wire with me, hopefully, one last time.

  Everyone should fear heights.

  Everyone should learn to use that fear.

  I listened to my instincts, trusted my body, and made the jump. Next thing I knew, I had landed sloppily on Jeff’s balcony.

  Then stupidly—because by that point I had no idea what I was doing—I climbed onto Jeff’s balcony and jumped to Rick’s, where I pounded on his slider with the flat of both hands.

  Chancho went crazy, barking at me, but I kept on banging away at Rick’s door.

  The only thing holding me up was the idea of Rick and more.

  I’d be safe with him. He’d know what to do, even in a world where my vision, my ability to reason, and quite possibly my sanity disintegrated around me.

  After a few tense seconds, his face appeared in the glass between us. Relief blew up my heart. My body sagged the second he unlocked and opened the door.

  “Lonnie.” He caught me. “What the hell happened?”

  “Dave,” I managed to whisper. “It’s Dave. Please—”

  “Shh.” As he pulled me inside one-armed, he yanked his phone out of his pocket and started dialing.

  I rested my forehead on his shoulder. A voice said, “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

  Rick gave the address and a terse statement. After, he stayed on the line.

  Chancho paced next to us, hackles still up, on high alert.

  “What happened exactly?” I told him Dave attacked me and why. “Jesus. His niece? The organizer?”

  I winced. “It was him I heard in the apartment. We were talking on his cell phone. I don’t know why I didn’t make the connection. I heard Pepper barking over the line.”

  He grabbed a clean kitchen towel and filled it with ice. “Press this to the back of your head.”

  “Are you going to go after Dave?”

  “Hell no.” He scowled. “Not my job anymore, remember?”

  “Do you wish it was?”

  “Sometimes.” His gaze softened. “Not right now. Hold tighter.”

  “Watch it.” I grimaced when he pressed the makeshift icepack to the back of my head. “That hurts.”

  “Gotta keep pressure on that wound.” He let his fingers drift over my forehead. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too.” I bit my lip. “About a lot of things. I was coming to tell you. I had food from Factory. Wine and everything.”

  He smiled. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. Look.” I gripped his hand. “I want more these days too. But…”

  “What?” He tensed, as if bracing for another letdown.

  “Maybe I just want to go slow, is all.”

  “Slow’s okay.” Rick pressed a delicate kiss to my lips. “Even glacially slow is still progress.”

  We were going to have to talk about all those extra-gentle kisses. Even though he was bigger, and I was a little frail right then, I intended to show him I was a lot tougher than I looked. Someday. When my head wasn’t swimming.

  He didn’t let me go—even when the police arrived along with EMTs.

  “Mr. Boudreaux.” Officer Chandler, who got the original call to Jeff’s murder, winced when he got a good look at me. “He tuned you up pretty good, huh?”

  The police talked to Rick while paramedics bound my head and locked a contraption around my neck to stabilize me for transport. They started an IV—no pain meds because of a likely concussion. Except for Rick holding my hand—and Pepper holding her own at the animal ER—this had turned out to be an extra-shitty day.

  The cops fanned out, but they didn’t find Dave.

  I wasn’t surprised. Dave seemed like a runner, not a fighter. The slip he’d made about forwarding his calls caused him to panic. Without that mistake, he never would have come after me.

  I didn’t even realize what his words meant, but the thought that I might, made him desperate enough to try to get me off-balance and let gravity do the rest. Fighting back like that, being able to jump to Jeff’s place and then Rick’s—even after he bashed my brains in—was not part of his plan for me.

  When things didn’t go the way he wanted, I was sure he’d run.

  “They’ll find him,” Rick murmured against my hair. “You’ll see.”

  The only thing I cared about was getting rid of my headache. Well, I cared about how I’d left things with Rick. And that my restaurant wasn’t going to chef itself forever. And I was worried about my dog…

  I tried to sit up. “I should call the vet.”

  “Not a chance in hell.” Rick’s fingers tightened on mine as other, gloved hands kept me from getting up.

  “But I need to take care of my dog.”

  “Your dog?” he echoed. “Despite your endless work hours? Despite the fact she’s a swoony Lab who wants to be your dog girlfriend?”

  “Must have got hit over the head.”

  “Are you sure you want that? There’s no shame in—”

  “I’m sure.” I tightened my grip on his hand. “I guess I’m ready for a little chaos in my life. Maybe a lot.”

  He looked at our laced fingers. “How about we have dinner when they let you out of the hospital?”

  “Sure. Now that I’ve caught Jeff’s killer—”

  “I hate to rain on your party”—he smothered a smile—“but wasn’t Dave the one who caught you?”

  “Whatever. Now that one mystery is solved, we need to stop a dog-poisoning asshole.”

  He frowned. “How are we supposed to do that?”

  “Dunno, but you’re an ex-cop, and I just caught a killer. We’ve got game.”

  “Like I said—”

  “Hush.” I pulled him into a kiss.

  Kissing turned out to be a great way to stop Rick’s sexy, sarcastic mouth.

  He looked a little dazed when I let him go.

  “Your place?” I gave him the ultra-hopeful smize. “You are a damn fine cook.”

  “Nuh-uh. How about we have dinner with my family? If you want chaos, you should try them. We can talk about maybe seeing where things lead after you pass muster with all my aunties.”

  “Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be?”

  “Mm-hmm.” His lips curled into a saucy grin.

  “Okay. I’ll see your family, and raise you my mother.”

  “I’ll call that bet. What have you got?”

  “Not much,” I admitted. “But for the first time ever, I want more.”

  “Even though we’re neighbors?” That came with a coy lift of his eyebrow. “This is gonna get weird, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, I hope so.” The gurney moved, bringing a fresh wave of dizziness to go with my pounding headache. “I really hope so.”

  THE END

  Lights. Camera. Murder. by C.S. Poe

  Private investigator Rory Byrne has gained a reputation as someone the elite of New York City can trust to solve their problems quickly and quietly. So when a hotshot television producer hires him to recover a stolen script, Rory will have to go undercover on the set of a historical drama to complete the job. He has his hands full trying to investigate a skeptical crew while they work around the clock on The Bowery, a new show that promises to shake up the television industry. To make a delicate situation more complicated, the production is led by out-and-proud actor Marion Roosevelt, and Rory is downright smitten.

  But every member of the cast and crew is a suspect in the theft. And the deeper Rory delves into their on-set personalities, the more suspicious Marion’s behavior becomes. If Rory is to uncover the theft without sacrificing the fate of The Bowery, he will have to trust his identity and his heart to Marion.

  INT. PROLOGUE – DAY

  GET BENT, DIPSHIT

  The love
note was scrawled across my grocery list on the refrigerator door. Which was fine. I preferred keeping all my reminders in a central location. Now I knew I needed to pick up milk, sugar, bread, and a new boyfriend.

  My cell rang as I splashed some cream into my coffee.

  I pushed my tortoiseshell glasses up my nose and turned to pick up the phone from the counter behind me.

  Caller ID: Nate.

  Shocker.

  I pressed Accept and put the phone to my ear. “Good morning, sunshine. I got your message.”

  “You’re a sonofabitch, Rory!”

  “I’ve been called worse things by better people.”

  Nate’s audible gasp allowed me enough time to indulge in that first sip of morning coffee.

  “Only an asshole breaks up over text message,” he accused.

  I winced at his shrill tone, pulled the phone away from my ear, set it to speaker, and put it back on the countertop. “I only have one rule, Nate.”

  “Screw your rule!”

  “And you broke it,” I continued without missing a beat.

  “Maybe if you were a contributing member in our relationship, I wouldn’t have had to find someone else to fuck me senseless.”

  I stared at the phone and messed my already disheveled hair with one hand. “I told you when we started dating just how much I worked.”

  “And?”

  “And if you need it day and night, I’m probably not the most suitable candidate in the dating pool.”

  Nate let out a frustrated growl and then shouted loud enough to cause mic distortion, “Can you pretend like you give a damn right now?”

  “It’s not worth my energy. You swore to never lie, and I caught you in one.” I took another sip of coffee while he sputtered and hissed. “Oh. I’d like my extra key back,” I stated before casting a second glance at the fridge door.

  “Burn in hell, Rory.”

  “Have a good life, Nate.”

  “Hey, while we’re at it—I fucked your coworker too!” he screamed.

  “Yeah, I know. Bye-bye.” I hit End, promptly deleted Nate’s contact information from my phone, and walked out of the kitchen.

  LIGHTS. CAMERA. MURDER.

  INT. CHAPTER ONE – DAY

  FADE IN

  The phone was ringing again.

  I walked out of the steamy bathroom, wrapping a towel around my waist. I grabbed the cell from the kitchen counter. “Byrne.”

  “Rory.”

  I straightened instinctually. “Good morning, ma’am,” I said to Violet Shelby, my supervisor at Dupin Private Investigations. She’d been working for the company since the ’80s. And while Shelby no longer answered telephones for her boss, but instead was the boss, she’d never been able to shake the shoulder pads and power suits of those bygone days.

  “It’s a morning,” she corrected. “What do you know about movies?”

  I opened my mouth, paused, then gradually said, “I…took a film-appreciation course in college about a hundred years ago. I mostly recall the insides of my eyelids.”

  Shelby chuckled. “You talk like you’re an old man.”

  Forty-five, but Shelby hadn’t called to ask what year I graduated.

  The brisk air of the apartment—a January chill that not even central heating could entirely dissipate—caused goose bumps to rise on my damp skin.

  “Does the name John Anderson mean anything to you?” Shelby asked.

  “Wes Anderson’s less successful half-brother?”

  “Funny,” she replied, but her tone implied otherwise. “He’s a hotshot television producer here in the city.”

  Hotshot. That was code for Royal Pain in the Ass.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I just finished a consultation call with him,” she continued. “This will be an undercover case for you.”

  “As?”

  “Well…” There was an uncharacteristically lengthy pause on her end. “It’s a little outside the box for Dupin,” Shelby warned. “I’m sending you onto a live set. A television show being filmed at Kaufman Astoria Studios out in Queens.”

  I put a hand on the doorframe and tapped the wall absently. “What exactly is the case, ma’am?”

  “Theft. An inside job with a limited timeframe for investigation.”

  My towel started to slip, and I grabbed one corner, holding it against my hip. “Can you elaborate?”

  “Unfortunately not. It’ll be up to you to get further details from Anderson. I know, I know,” she continued, almost as if she could sense my oncoming comment regarding my dislike of intentionally vague details. “But he came to us at the endorsement of another hotshot client. You know how they all are. He’s looking to have this wrapped up quickly and quietly.”

  “Aren’t they always?”

  She snorted. “The suspect will be dealt with internally.”

  Always sounded a bit mob-ish when Shelby said that.

  I started toward the bedroom. “All right. I’m getting ready now.”

  “I should warn you,” Shelby said before I had the opportunity to end the conversation. “There are nearly a hundred people on set. They’re all considered suspects.”

  ***

  Dress like a PA.

  That was an easy enough instruction—if I knew what the hell a PA was. But Shelby hadn’t elaborated on the matter. I suspected she wasn’t certain herself and simply reiterated the undercover suggestion provided by Mr. Anderson.

  So I googled it.

  Physician’s assistant.

  I kept scrolling on my phone. Google seemed pretty convinced this was what I wanted—even went so far as to suggest courses for becoming a PA, salaries, and stats related to the industry.

  I tapped the browser bar and redirected my search to include: what is a film PA?

  And there it was at the top of the feed—production assistant. Although the title didn’t suggest much by way of wardrobe. I stood in the middle of my bedroom, naked but for a pair of boxer briefs, perusing a few blogs on basic film industry etiquette before stumbling upon a recent article that fit the bill: “My First PA Gig. Now What?”

  My thoughts exactly.

  Not that I was looking to make a career change, but one of the traits of a successful PI was being able to blend into any environment like a chameleon. I’d been Shelby’s top undercover man for nearly a decade. I sniffed out business fraud in action like a bloodhound, all while playing the role of some newly hired, clueless stooge. But performing for the benefit of the white-collar crowd around a water cooler was a lot easier than acting in front of professional actors. And if I had close to a hundred cast and crew members to sort through regarding this theft of…something, I needed to have a firm handle on the sort of environment I was walking into.

  The article suggested closed-toed shoes, comfortable layers, and to expect being on my feet all day. All right. So not the correct industry to flaunt four-hundred-dollar, turquoise Fluevog Oxfords. And I definitely wouldn’t need to waste time hemming and hawing over a matching tie.

  I tossed the phone to the bed. Gary, my Siamese cat, raised his head from the pillows and made a sleepy pigeon sound in response.

  “Sorry, baby,” I said, looking over my shoulder. “Daddy’s got to work.”

  Gary yawned and squeaked out another half-hearted meow.

  “I know,” I answered before opening the closet door. “But if you want to keep living this extravagant lifestyle, one of us has to bring home the bread. Right?”

  No response.

  I glanced at the cat again. He was asleep. Little shit.

  I turned my attention back to the closet and began to sift through the contents. The clothes were mine, in the sense that I’d paid for them, but I considered my wardrobe that of a theater production’s. A costume to suit every situation, every atmosphere, every sort of case a Dupin PI was entrusted with.

  For the apparel oft proclaims the man, as Polonius said.

  Sometimes, though, dressing for me was…a curious pre
dicament. Such occasions were rare, however. I worked a lot. And that was fine. Investigating was what I did—what I was. I needn’t be concerned with Rory Byrne because my skills were always in demand. Besides cleaning up Gary’s hairballs off the kitchen floor and being some man’s soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, dishonesty was the only consistency in this otherwise topsy-turvy world.

  I tugged free a long-sleeve plaid shirt that must have been as old as the grunge movement itself, and a broken-in pair of Levi’s from a shelf underneath. I put the clothes on, walked to the bathroom while buttoning the shirt, and took a look in the mirror. I’d definitely grown into my chest and shoulders since the last time I’d worn this homage to Pearl Jam, but it’d do in a pinch. I ran my fingers through my strawberry-blond hair a few times, letting it lie wherever and giving myself a less posh look to match the rest of the ensemble.

  I went down the hall, fetched my peacoat from the closet near the front door, and looked back toward the kitchen as I adjusted the jacket collar. Morning sun poured through the blinds onto the table piled with soldering equipment and half-finished projects that were my “de-stress hobby,” and cast sharp rays of light across the stainless-steel fridge. Nate’s addition to my grocery list shined like a beacon and reinforced my whole point about humans. I returned to the kitchen, gently plucked the note free from under a Cat Dad magnet, folded it, and slipped it into my coat pocket.

  ***

  I didn’t like Long Island City.

  But I did like their parking fees.

  Leaving my car in a garage for the day at a third of the price I’d have paid in Manhattan, I walked four blocks to Kaufman Studios. Despite the bright, sun-shining, blue-sky day, the mercury was flirting with zero. The Queens neighborhood wasn’t the wind tunnel that my block on the west end of Midtown tended to be, but the sidewalk still leeched the life out of me with each step, until by the end of my brisk, twelve-minute walk, I felt as if I was walking on pebbles, not toes.

  I crossed the street and took a right toward the security box outside the studio gates.