Joe Bright: The Black Garden

The suspect: Joe Bright

Case of THE BLACK GARDEN
ISNB: 978-1905202980


The call came in five days ago about the incident at THE BLACK GARDEN. Word on the street was that a guy by the name of Joe Bright, had all the answers. I finally caught up with the suspect after spotting him entering The Smoke House on Lakeside drive. Too bad he couldn’t finish that prime rib, but getting the straight facts about this case was more pressing.

I shoved open the door to interrogation room three. Bright feigned a smile, but the eyes couldn’t mask the million questions that were running through his head—like he didn’t know I’d come after him. His feet were flat on the floor, palms down in front of him on top of the small metal table in the center of the otherwise barren room.

I took a seat across from Bright and studied him a second or two before asking:
“So, what gives, Joe? What’s your story?”

“My life has always revolved around the arts. When I was young, I used to draw constantly. I went to college on a fine arts scholarship and spent a few years on a dance team touring Canada and Europe. I also won a music showdown, playing the guitar and singing songs I’d written. Yet my biggest passion has always been writing. I wrote short stories while in high school and college, but never embarked on the daunting task of writing a novel until I’d graduated and moved to Hawaii.

I’ve been writing for fifteen years now and have written five novels. THE BLACK GARDEN is the first one to get picked up by a traditional publisher. Three of the others were published on audio cassette, but have since been discontinued. I also self-published two of them on my own, but have now discontinued those as well, since I’m rewriting them and plan to submit them to publishers once they’re finished.

Most of my stories fall within the gothic suspense category. THE BLACK GARDEN, however, is more of a drama/mystery. With its rural setting and dark theme, it still fits in the American Gothic genre, but without the supernatural elements that are often associated with the genre.”

“I see what you mean about the supernatural," I said, thinking about my own brush with the Devil. "But why this book? What drove you to do it?”

“One of the inspirations for THE BLACK GARDEN was a murder that took place in my hometown in Wyoming, when I was nineteen. I learned the details of the murder from my older brother’s best friend. He said the girl had been raped and strangled. She was eight-years-old.

A murder makes a large impact on a small town, mainly because it rarely happens there and because it tends to affect almost everyone. We know the victim. We know the killer. We know their families. When you come from a family of eight children, as I do, it increases the chances of there being a connection. In this case, the killer turned out to be my older brother’s best friend, the same one who had told us about the murder.

With the first suspect, I was willing to see the man hanged, even without seeing any of the evidence. When it turned out to be a friend of the family, I felt sick. I felt sorry for his family and for my brother. If he hadn’t confessed, I would have sworn they had the wrong guy. Why? Because I knew him and we often choose sides based on association rather than on the facts of the situation.

This murder is a very small part of THE BLACK GARDEN; however, the theme of judgment runs throughout the story. Who’s right, the Hatfields or McCoys? Depends if you’re a Hatfield or a McCoy.”

I knew exactly where he was coming from—that sick feeling when you find out those you care about most are not who you think they are. “That’s tough, but you can’t play it both ways. I mean, what did you think the people of this town would get out of your work?”

"I hope the novel gives readers a different perspective on events, and entertains them at the same time.”

I skimmed through my note, ran a finger down the page until I found what I needed. “What do you know about Mitchell Sanders?”

“Mitchell is the outsider. He moves to the small town of Winter Haven for a summer job. He doesn’t care about his employers or the community. He’s a coward who has run away from his problems in Boston and then finds himself entrenched in even bigger problems. He’s not comfortable speaking his mind while in the company of people he knows will disagree with him. Yet as the conflict mounts, he’s forced to take a stand and to grow as a person.”


“What aren’t you telling me? I have all your notes, something’s missing,” I said, leaning forward and waving a set of loose pages in his face. “Found them on your website, http://www.joebrightbooks.com/pages/excerpt_black_garden.html, certainly caught my attention. How about you give it to me straight? The whole story; the plot, the characters, the setting, everything!”

“Mitchell Sanders takes a summer job in Winter Haven, helping the O’Briens fix up their house. He moves into the studio at the back of the black garden, a bizarre assortment of items now overrun with weeds. Soon, Mitchell realizes there is something very peculiar about his employers and discovers that not all of their skeletons are in the closet where they belong.

The story revolves around three characters: Mitchell, George, and Candice. Mitchell Sanders, the main protagonist, starts out naïve and detached but gradually grows more and more intrigued by his quirky employers, mainly George. All of us know someone like George O’Brien, a crotchety old man who has nothing good to say about anything. Yet, within his orneriness, you can’t help but be entertained by him and ultimately care about him. George’s granddaughter, Candice has led a sheltered life. Mitchell’s arrival provides her first real glimpse into the outer world. I chose Vermont for the setting mainly because when I visited there I was taken by its beauty and felt it would make a great backdrop for the story. The town of Winter Haven is fictitious; however, I drew a lot on my hometown of Evanston, Wyoming, when describing the layout.”


“Where’d you dig up your facts?”

“Since THE BLACK GARDEN takes place in 1958, I had to do a lot of research about the era to make the setting authentic. I wanted to make sure the dialog didn’t contain slang or technical terms that didn’t exist at the time. I also needed to know how the police investigated a crime prior to the advent of DNA testing. Fortunately, one of my older brothers works in law enforcement, and I was able to pick his brain on procedures and protocol.”


“A cop, huh?” I was thinking maybe Bright wasn’t so bad after all. Still, I needed to satisfy that nagging voice that wouldn't stop tapping inside my head. “This case you stumbled onto. Any road blocks along the way?”

“The hardest part about writing is the blank page. I often say that writing is a lot like creating a sculpture out of clay. In the first draft, you are creating the clay. That’s the hard part. Molding it is the fun part. To help me through this process, I first write an outline, plotting out the story. Through this, I come up with my characters, establishing their backgrounds, their likes and dislikes, as well as their strengths and weaknesses. Once I know my characters, it’s much easier to know how they will react in a given situation. Often I’ll just write anything that comes to mind, just to get the writing going and to fill up that daunting blank page. I also tend to keep other novels around so I can pick one up and read a little to get me in the right frame of mind.”


“So how does a guy who works full time find time write?"

“I’m a graphic designer during the day and a writer in the evenings. Thus, I’m at the computer all day long. The tragic part of that is that I have very little social life. I can be quite obsessive and have to force myself to take a break and go do something fun. In other words, I’m still trying to find that balance.”

“Who are you trying to kid?” Everyone does the juggling act. I thought to myself. I leaned back and waited to see if he flinched—he didn’t—damn it. “All right, Bright, what I want to know is how did burning the midnight oil affect you? Everyone has their breaking point. What’s yours? How did working on THE BLACK GARDEN impact you?"

“It’s such a great feeling of accomplishment to finish a novel. I also write songs, and I remember how proud I was when I wrote my first song, which took a few days. A novel, on the other hand, takes months or years. Thus, the feeling of pride is that much greater. The most rewarding part of it is having other people read and enjoy it. It’s a nice boost of confidence and encourages me to continue fine tuning my writing skills and to work on the next novel.”

“Something tells me you weren't working alone. Who talked you into it?”

“My parents and brothers and sisters have always encouraged me. It’s nice to have someone believe in you, even when you’re having trouble getting agents and publishers to read your work. I’m very fortunate to have such a supporting family.”

“This is premeditation plain and simple. So how’d you do it? Did you have a plan? Did you outline the chapters? Did you plan out the plot? What steps did you take before you wrote the first sentence?”

“The first novel I ever wrote, I took the fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants approach. That is, I just delved in without really knowing where the story would take me. Many writers work that way and do a splendid job with it. Not me. I ended up doing a lot of editing that I could have avoided if I’d have thought things out better. Now I always outline. First, I write a brief synopsis of the story. Second, I figure out who my characters are. This often takes a month or more, because I really need to know who these people are so I can work with them. Third, I write an outline. My outlines include most of the dialogue and brief sketches of the action. Thus, they tend to be around a hundred pages long. Fourth, I start writing the novel. The novel never follows the outline completely, since I discover new things while writing and often encounter flaws that I’d overlooked before.”

No matter how hard I pushed, I couldn’t break this guy’s spirit. Worse, I couldn’t hold him another minute without cause. But my gut was sending me signals. This wasn’t the last I’d see of Joe Bright and you can bet I’m going to keep an eye on him. He wiped the sweat from his brow and asked if he was free to go. I said sure—for now, but couldn’t leave it alone. I just had to ask him that burning question: “What’s next?"

“I’m doing a rewrite of my first novel, The Reflection. It’s a gothic suspense about a man who inherits an estate in England from someone he doesn’t know, and then discovers that he looks like the man who killed his benefactor. This is one of the novels that I self-published earlier. I’ve learned a lot since then and feel this new version is vastly superior to the last. I still have a few more months’ worth of work to go on it.”

I wasn’t entirely sorry I asked. Silenced followed us as I walked him down the main hall. When he started out the front doors of city hall it hit me again and I yelled: “Hey Joe, any words of wisdom for the fledgling writer?”

He turned and shot me a Hollywood smiled. “Never stop learning. There’s always more to learn about the art of writing that can help you perfect your novel. Besides reading novels and analyzing the authors’ techniques, it’s good to read books about writing, even if just to refresh your memory. I highly recommend Techniques of the Selling Writer by Dwight V. Swain, and The Art of Dramatic Writing by Lajos Egri. If I’d read these books years ago, I probably would have gotten published sooner.”

About the author:

Joe Bright was raised in Wyoming and received his BA in English from Utah State University. Bright began his career as a technical writer for Thiokol, the manufacturer of space shuttle rocket boosters. He later taught English in Honolulu, Hawaii and Berkeley, California. He currently lives in Studio City , California , and works as a graphic designer. Bright is published by BeWrite Books (UK).

Silenced Cry

Review by Mayra Calvani in Book Reviews, Reviews

If you like mystery novels with rich plots that dig into the past, then you’ll enjoy Silenced Cry by Marta Stephens.

During a routine pick-up for questioning, Detective Sam Harper loses his partner and friend, Gillies. Harper is confused and distraught by the event, which happens under suspicious circumstances. Soon afterwards he’s called to solve a murder case like none he’s been involved before: the homicide of an infant. In a rundown building that’s about to be demolished, trapped behind a wall, they find the skeletal remains of an newborn baby. To make matters worse, the murder seems to have taken place not recently but over a decade ago, making the investigation a lot harder.

As Detective Harper begins to investigate, a line of suspects slowly emerges. The detective must moved back in time in order to uncover the terrible events which let to the infant’s demise. Soon he’s pulled into a vortex of drugs, corruption, rape and murder as other members of the police force become suspects. At the same time, someone wants the case close and the building demolished as soon as possible, someone who doesn’t want Harper opening the door to the past.

Who murdered the infant? Is the murder only a small part of a much larger set of crimes which have been kept secret all these years? Is Harper ready to face the truth and come to terms with the results of his own investigation?

Silenced Cry is deftly crafted and an impressive first novel. The pace moves steadily without being too quick nor too slow, allowing the reader to savor each stage of the investigation. The dialogue is sharp and natural and the prose focuses on the action without letting unnecessary details and description get in the way. The police procedurals read realistically, giving the impression that the author either knows well about the subject or did a fair amount of research. For me, this was not a thriller that read at a fast pace, but a ‘gourmet’ mystery that I enjoyed at every stage of the story. Sam Harper is a likable character, but I would say that this is a plot-driven novel more than a character-driven one. Our detective protagonist is sympathetic, but there were times when, for me, he got lost in the midst of the plot. I feel he would have stood out more given stronger, more sharply defined characteristics or quirks. This is an observation more than a criticism, as it didn’t lessen by desire to keep on reading. The secondary characters are quite realistic as well, especially some of the suspects–though I don’t dare say more for fear of giving away spoilers.

Marta Stephens is a mystery author to watch out for. I will be soon reviewing the second book in the series, The Devil Can Wait, and I have to say I’m very much looking forward to it. If you enjoy an intelligently crafted detective story, I recommend you give this one a try.

An Unlikely Alliance - Part II

© Marta Stephens 2009 all rights reserved
Read Part I

Part II

The instructions on Oliver Kurtz’s note underscored his demand for punctuality. I was to arrive at ten a.m. on the dot at his home in the twelve hundred block of east South Street. How could a man who knew every sordid detail of my life not be aware that I’d never bow down to an edict? I arrived promptly at twelve after the hour noting how disgustingly out of place my scratched ten-year-old Chevy looked parked in front of the house at 1215 South.

The marker displayed at the intersection four blocks back indicated I had entered a history neighborhood. Both sides of the road were flanked with large stately homes and well-manicured lawns. I expected to see a lavish home and an expensive car in Kurtz’s driveway to match the others along this street. Instead, his one-story ranch stood out like a brick in field of diamonds.

A second after ringing the bell, a man in his thirties sporting a golden tan and even features answered the door. I envisioned him waiting for me—one hand on the knob, an eye peering through the peephole. The image was as clear as seeing him rummage through my house. With a grunt and wave of the hand he motioned for me to enter. His black polo shirt did little to hide the bulge of muscles on his arms and upper chest, yet the emptiness in his gaze gave me a chill. I’d seen his type before, an animal who’d mindlessly comply with orders.

I followed him down the main hallway and into the den. There he instructed me to take a seat in one of two leather chairs in front of a less than impressive desk. I couldn’t help but notice the display of plaques and certificates adorning the wall to my immediate right. The room was more telling of the man I was about to meet than a twelve-page report. This man was neat and precise. He’d already displayed a keen wit, with knowledge comes power and the place oozed with it. He would expect perfection. I sensed as much. So the burning question on the tip of my tongue was, why me?

There wasn’t time to think of an answer before the tanned guy opened the door again. I assumed the man behind him was Oliver Kurtz. His appearance deceived the image I had conjured up in my mind. No, he wouldn’t have made me glance twice in a crowed room. Yet it was clear he had been there—in those crowded rooms, studying my style, memorizing my schedule, making me wonder now how long he’d been at it.

“Ms. Stone, you’re late,” he said, extending his hand. “Oliver Kurtz.”

“That much I figured.”

“Care for something to drink? Coffee, water?”

“No thanks.” I couldn’t help wonder why the muscleman had taken a seat in the overstuffed chair near the door. Clearly he was more than a pretty-faced butler. That assumption made me curious to know why Kurtz needed protecting. More to the point, from what or who?

Kurtz had thinning dark hair and seemed to be in relatively good shape for a man who looked to be nudging his mid-sixties. He had yet to smile or express any pleasure to meet me, but his eyes drew me in all the same; dark and intense, searching, questioning, yet non-threatening. At least that was my first assessment.

“You’re a former FBI,” I said, nodding at the plaque hanging on the wall behind his desk.

“Yes.”

“Long?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really.” I glanced back at the other man in the room unable to shake the image of him walking through my house. The thought of him slithering his meaty fingers through my panty drawer made me ill. And he had the insolence to place Kurtz’s package on my bed, the creep. I grinned in spite of the anger churning inside me. “The rose was a nice touch.”

The man’s granite-like expression made it clear he was unaffected by the intentional jab so I let it drop.

“I assume you’ve read through the case file?” Kurtz said.

“Yes, but it’s full of holes.”

“How so?”

“What’s your interest in Laura Wells?”

“Justice.”

“For her?” I asked.

“Not hardly.” Kurtz lowered and raised his glance. “People have the misconception the FBI never misses their targets. Some cases will never be solved, others we simply couldn’t touch.”

“Why not?”

“Various reasons, sometimes politics, at other times ... well, let’s just say that exposing the guilty would cause more damage than the crime itself.”

“Which is it with Wells, politics or damage control?”

“The obstacle keeping us from investigating Laura Wells is no longer an issue.”

“An issue?”

“It’s not important.”

“It is if you expect me to take this case. I don’t play games, Mr. Kurtz—not with my work—not with my life. So what exactly do I need to know about her?”

Kurtz leaned back in his chair and drew in a breath. He paused for a moment then said:
“Her uncle, Paul H. Jutte, was a high-power criminal defense attorney in a community just north of Boston from the 1950s through the ’90s. On December 26, 1959, he was a brash 34 year-old full of spit and vinegar when he defended a small time hoodlum by the name of Robert O’Malley who had been charged with robbing $800 from a local bank. O’Malley served five of his ten-year sentence and was granted early parole for good behavior. Six months after his release, an armored car was hijacked. The driver was killed, but not before plugging one of the thieves with bullets from his service revolver.”

“O’Malley?”

“No. Another man, Bill Fife. What’s important is that Fife and O’Malley met in prison, were released around the same time, and ...”

“Let me guess, both were represented by Jutte.”

“Smart girl,” he said. “We knew Fife impersonated a security guard by the phony company ID we found on his body. The driver was legit, but we have no idea if he was in on the heist or not.”

“Except for the fact he killed Fife.”

“Yes, but for all we know, it was a stray bullet. No way to know if he intended to kill Fife or not,” he said. “At any rate, the dispatch logs indicated the truck pulled out of the garage at nine in the morning and arrived at the First National Bank at ten-twenty-three. We have witness statements that confirm Fife and the driver went into the bank vault and removed bags containing $4 million in cash and more than $1 million in checks before leaving. When the truck didn’t return to the garage, the company reported it and the guards missing. The local police found the bodies of the two men and the empty truck on a side road three miles off highway 128.”

“What about the bullet taken from the driver’s body? Did it match Fife’s gun?”

“No,” he said.

“So there was a third person involved in the heist.”

“At least. Unfortunately, ballistics never found a match to the bullet and we never found the gun.”

“Then why finger Jutte and O’Malley?”

“Gut instinct,” he said. “Fife didn’t have the smarts to pull off something that big on his own. He was a loner, no family to speak of and the only two calls he ever made to the outside were to Jutte and O’Malley. Every ounce of evidence against the two was purely circumstantial. We lost the case, of course, but my instincts still tell me those two were neck-high involved in it.”

“And the five million?”

“Never recovered. The case is still on the books, but without witnesses or evidence, the case might as well be closed. No one at the agency has worked it for years.”

“So where’s Jutte now?”

“Dead--two years ago of natural causes.”

“Fascinating.” My thoughts of reward money, a front page spread, and a spot on Oprah were fading fast. “From the picture you placed in the file, Wells can’t be over 30.”

“Thirty-six. What’s your point?” he asked.

“She wasn’t alive when that robbery took place. So she’s related to Jutte, what’s she have to do with any of this?”

“After her uncle’s death, she took over his law firm in Chandler and with it she inherited his clientele.”

“Including Robert O’Malley.”

“Right again, Ms. Stone.”

“And you think she’ll talk? Wells is bound by client/attorney privileges.” I couldn’t believe he needed reminding.

“I doubt Wells is terribly concerned with ethics. She has a somewhat sorted past of her own. My interest at the moment, however, is to find out what she knows about robbery. Even though Jutte defended O’Malley at the trial, Jutte wouldn’t have placed any pertinent information about the robbery in O’Malley’s file. But trust me, his ego wouldn’t have allowed him to not keep some type of memento of his victory.”

“A souvenir.”

Kurtz didn’t respond. Instead, he frisked me with a piercing glance.

“I get it. Get close and see what she knows. Is that it?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “Wouldn’t it be more direct to shake down O’Malley?”

“No. He thinks he’s been out of the spotlight for years. If he knows we’re on to him, we might lose him for good. Besides, he’s old and my sources tell me he’s not in the best of health.” Kurtz reached for a notepad and pen and scribbled on it. “Here’s someone you may want to contact.”

“Sam Harper? Who’s he?”

“City homicide.”

“I work alone.”

“I know,” he said.

“Then what makes you think I need a cop?”

“Wells is defending one of his arrests right now. I understand there’s no love lost between them. Could work in our favor.”

“Maybe.” Never met a cop who like working with a PI. The feeling was entirely mutual so I couldn’t see getting close to this one. Kurtz had a point though. “Think he knows about Laura Wells’s past?”

“It’s hard to say. Get close enough and he might just confide in you. Surely you can be persuasive without tackling the man to the ground.”

“Very funny.”

“Go home. Pack a few bags. I expect you in Chandler by the end of the week.”

It was all I could do to keep the smirk off my lips. I opened the door then stopped and glanced over my shoulder. He looked too smug for words and I couldn’t resist getting the final word. “I travel light. Should be there by seven this evening. And just so you know, I don’t need any calls from you or visits from Mr. Goon over there to keep me focused.”

The End

Kind of ... look for more of this character and this scene in the next Sam Harper Crime Mystery novel.

An Unlikely Alliance - Part I

© Marta Stephens 2009 all rights reserved

Part I

I scoured through the morning paper for what? A client? Right. I was starting to mumble under my breath a lot these days. For the past several weeks I knocked on the doors of countless law firms from Wall Street to Harlem and everyplace in between. The insurance companies who had paid for my skills in the past weren’t hiring either, and the banks? The criminals were on the inside now. The Feds had those greedy bastards and corporate leaders on a short leash to hell.

It’d been too long since my last case and even longer since I’d seen a check for services rendered. All the same, I wasn’t desperate enough to go after the mafia type criminal who blackmailed poor shopkeepers on the lower east end. Not this girl. I’d rather hold out for the white-collar crimes. The cases that allowed me to blend in without getting fingered as a private investigator.

My last job dried up mid-stream when the only witness to a land scam skipped town and my client vanished without writing a check. I’d leave my home every morning with a promise on my lips to not come home without finding a client. I’m tired—dead tired. I woke up this morning feeling as worn as an old pair of socks. I gave the paper a toss and wondered how I ever managed before the invention of automatic timers on coffee pots. Now the aroma from the Italian blend dripping into the pot was the only reason to get out of bed before ten. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and reached for a mug from the dish rack. I was in the midst of pouring that much needed first cup when I heard the familiar sound of metal rumbling outside on the porch. The mailman arrived like clockwork with the usual assortment of unwanted bills and junk mail.

I waited for him to leave before snatching the envelopes from the box and slamming the front door shut with a deliberate swing of a hip. The envelopes got a quick thumb through and just as I was ready to pitch the pile in the trash, a small square envelope caught my attention. My name, Jacquie Stone, was scrawled across the front in heavy black strokes of ink. The New York postmark was dated two days before but that wasn’t a problem. It was the absence of a return address that brought on a frown. Like an idiot, I studied it for a second or two the way some people look at and shake a gift-wrapped box before trying to guess what’s in it. This little delivery was just what I needed to fire up the old inquisitive juices. I ripped it open with a few jagged strokes of the thumb and read:

Must talk, noon, Augusts 19, at the Chester House. ~ O. Kurtz

Eleven words if you count the initial. That’s all. Aside from the signature, I had no clue to the sender’s identity or his reason for wanting to meet. One thing for sure was the reputation of the membership at the Chester House. In recent years, the club had caved in to the demands for admitting women executives. Gender aside, this little note had the smell of testosterone and deep-pocket money. The kitchen clock told me I had two hours to shower, dress and get my rear down to the swanky club in the center of Wall Street. Must have changed clothes three times before deciding on a pair of khakis and a lime-colored blouse. Frilly’s not me and anything more than casual would have screamed desperation.

* * *

I walked into the Chester House with six minutes to spare. The stench from years of cigars and pipe tobacco wafted over me. Dark wood paneling lined the walls of the lobby and scattered about, in groups of twos and threes, were burgundy leather wingback chairs. The polished ends on the arms marked their years of use.

“May I help you?” The slender man behind the desk could easily have walked out of a 1950s flick with his yellow cardigan sweater, polo shirt and slicked back hair--pure white. His ruddy complexion and the burst of capillaries that crisscrossed his face revealed an old habit.

“Jacquie Stone,” I said. “I’m supposed to meet a Mr. Kurtz.”

“Right.” He pointed to one of the leather chairs. “Have a seat. I’ll tell ’em you’re here.”

The gawky little man disappeared down a narrow hallway and didn’t return. A few minutes later and still no sign of him or Kurtz. Money or not, my patience was starting to wane.

By twenty after, I was royally pissed. Regardless of my penniless state, being the butt end of an old geezer’s joke wasn’t on my agenda. Only one thing to do, but when I started to leave the familiar tone of my cell made me stop and reach into my pocket.

“Hello?”

“Sit down, Ms. Stone.”

I instinctively shot a glance around the lobby. There were only a handful of men here today. Some were reading the paper. The two off to one side were in the middle of a heated discussion, and the man across the way was sound asleep. None of them was using a phone.

“Would you like a drink, Ms. Stone?” the caller said as if we were a couple of long lost friends.

“I don’t think so.” I should have kept walking. Instead, my curiosity got the better of me so I took a seat. Still, I couldn’t stop scanning the room. Silence screamed at me from the other end of the line. It was deafening and I wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into. “I suppose you’re feeling smug with yourself. You know my name and apparently what I look like. Why the sham?”

“Let’s just say I’m cautious.”

“I suppose Kurtz isn’t your real name either.” I waited for a response--it never came. “Right, have it your way. So, what’s on your mind?”

“I need to know you can be trusted.”

“You came looking for me, remember?” In fatter days, I would’ve left by now. Instead, I glanced at my watch and pretended to be out of time. I had nowhere to go, but at least that was one thing the creep on the other end of the line couldn’t possibly know.

“Am I keeping you from something?” he asked.

The hint of laughter in his voice nudged me to the next level of unease. “A paying client.”

“Really, Ms. Stone. You haven’t worked a case in six weeks, you’re past due on your mortgage, the bill collectors are beating a path to your door, and you have no prospect for work. Go on, have a drink on me.”

“Any fool can get his hands on that information if he knows where to look.”

“You grew up in Pennsylvania, your father worked in the mines, your mother was a teacher. You are the youngest of four, caught pneumonia at the age of seven—nearly died, flunked out your first year at Penn State and decided police work was a better fit. Shall I go on?”

“Who the hell are you?”

“That shack you call home and your personal life are a mess by most people’s standards. You smoke and drink entirely too much to be called a lady and in spite of your failed attempts at what most would consider normal jobs, your success rate as a detective--”

“Private investigator.”

“—is noteworthy. You can be cold and ruthless when the situation calls for it and equally clever when no one’s looking—just the qualities needed for the task I have in mind.”

“You forgot suspicious. And buddy, you’re at the top of my list.”

“I’d expect nothing less from you,” he said. “Being guarded isn’t a bad thing which is why I’ve decided to overlook your shortcomings and hire you.”

A barrage of thoughts buzzed through my head like gnats on a bruised banana. All right, so I was desperate for money. The kicker was this joker knew it and was using that little roadblock against me.

“And if I refuse?”

“That, my dear, will be your choice—certainly your loss.”

Hadn’t realized how tightly I was holding the phone to my ear until I felt a tingly numb feeling rip through my fingers.

“Don’t think too long on it,” he said. “My offer is on the table until the end of this meeting.”

“What offer?”

“You have a good record when you actually work. I imagine by now you’d be willing to do anything.”

“Not quite. Even I have my limits.” Not the most accurate statement I’d ever made, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to give any man an ounce of power over my life. Still, that hard spot pressing against my back was starting to sting and I had to wonder if Kurtz was responsible for my failed attempts to find clients. Our conversation was leaving a pungent taste in my mouth and a slug’s trail of chills up my spine. I felt sickened by my vulnerable, desperate state. It seemed I had no choice but to take whatever morsels of work Kurtz had to offer.

“Ms. Stone, all you have to say is, ‘yes’ and the job is yours.”

Thinking, thinking. The law, my standards and principles were all things I could talk myself into bending in spite of the logic against it. Having spent the last thirty-five dollars on gas to drive across town to the club was incentive enough for me to consider my options.

“Who are you?” I asked again. “How do you know—”

“I assure you that isn’t as important as my proposition.”

“Which is?” I questioned my sanity the second the words shot out of my mouth.

“I need information.”

“You and half of New York City.”

“I want you to follow someone.”

“Let me guess, your wife or your mistress? Maybe both?” I reached for the note pad and pen at the bottom of my purse.

“Neither. And there’s no need for that, Ms. Stone. All the information on the case is waiting for you in your home as we speak.”

“Great. I suppose one of your thugs broke in?”

“Not exactly.”

“Whatever that means.” I had visions of a busted lock or a window I’d have no way to fix. Yes, I desperately needed the money this jerk was willing to part with. The question was, what did he expect in return? Was he with the mafia or worse, a government agency? I finally managed to state the obvious.

“You’re forgetting one thing.”

“I doubt it.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“Ms. Stone, you and I both know you can’t afford to be hard-nosed about this. The fact that you’ve stayed on the line tells a great deal more than you’re willing to reveal. Take the case. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

“But—”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“Not until we meet face-to-face.”

“In time. Not here, not now.”

“Yes, now!” From the corner of my eye I noticed the men in the lobby turn their heads when I raised my voice.

“That will do nothing but complicate matters.”

I could feel him watching each move I made. Nothing good every came from a deal made in hell. Then again, for the right price, I could easily overlook the old man’s eccentricities. Two could play at this cat and mouse game and unless I missed my guess, he was just as desperate. “My fee is five hundred a day plus expenses. Take it or leave it.”

“Go home, Ms. Stone. Read over the material and then get some sleep. You’ll need it.”

* * *

I didn’t remember the half hour drive home. His voice was trapped in my head. His words ricocheted from lobe to lobe and angered me more with each passing. It was nearly three when I nosed my car in front of my house. From the street, the place looked just as I left it. No busted lock or broken glass on my living room floor. Instead, I found the large, sealed manila envelope Kurtz’s goon left on my bed. A perfectly shaped rose rested on top of it. It wasn’t enough that he entered my place uninvited, he had to get personal. He had to go to my room.

I raised the bud to my lips, felt its velvety peddles and drew in its scent. “Angel Face.” My grandmother’s prize rose garden in Ohio was full of them. The light purple color and strong, citrus fragrance instantly took me back to my youth, the summers spent on her farm, and the number of ribbons her roses consistently won at the state fair. I drew in a second whiff of aroma and looked at the rose again.

“How the hell did you know?"

The End ~ Part I

Read conclusion on 3/16/09

Twelve Witnesses

Memo to the file

S. Harper, Homicide

RE: Case of “The Devil Can Wait.”

Twelve witnesses came forward last night. Each had a different account of what happened – none of them knew the victims, but they had personal reasons to point a finger at our suspect. Interesting …

The Devil Can Wait up for a vote

My last big case, THE DEVIL CAN WAIT, is going to be reviewed again and Stephens asked me to put out a BOLO for votes. We're grateful to the kind-hearted citizens out there who gave our efforts a thumbs up last fall. It won November 2008 cover of the month. Word came this week that it's now waiting for the big vote for 2008 Book Cover of the Year!

I'd appreciate it if you'd take a minute to voice your opinion/vote. I promise your name will be entered in a drawing for the winning title.

The process is easy. You'll find the instructions here: http://www.erinaislinn.com/BookCoveroftheYear2008.htm Just scroll down until you see the cover and vote, okay?

So ... can I count on your help? Thanks ... I knew could. You have until April 15.

Catch you later,

Sam

Confessions of a Police Officer

© Jill Wragg 2001 all rights reserved

Dear Citizens, Neighbors, Friends and Family,

My name is Jill and I am a cop. That means that the pains and joys of my personal life are often muted by my work. I resent the intrusion but I confuse my self with my job almost as often as you do. The label "police officer" creates a false image of who I really am. Sometimes I feel like I'm floating between two worlds. My work is not just protecting and serving. It's preserving that buffer that exists in the space between what you think the world is, and what the world really is.

My job isn't like television. The action is less frequent, and more graphic. It is not exhilarating to point a gun at someone. Pooled blood has a disgusting metallic smell and steams a little when the temperature drops. CPR isn't an instant miracle and it's no fun listening to an elderly grandmother's ribs break while I keep her heart beating. I'm not flattered by your curiosity about my work. I don't keep a record of which incident was the most frightening, or the strangest, or the bloodiest, or even the funniest. I don't tell you about my day because I don't want to share the images that haunt me.

But I do have some confessions to make:

Sometimes my stereo is too loud. Andrea Bocelli's voice makes it easier to forget the wasted body of the young man who died alone in a rented room because his family feared the stigma of AIDS. Beethoven's 9th symphony erases the sight of the nurses who sobbed as they scrubbed layers of dirt and slime from a neglected 2-year-old's skin. The Rolling Stones' angry beat assures me that it was ignorance that drove a young mother to draw blood when she bit her toddler on the cheek in an attempt to teach him not to bite.

Sometimes I set a bad example. I exceeded the speed limit on my way home from work because I had trouble shedding the adrenalin that kicked in when I discovered that the man I handcuffed during a drug raid was sitting on a loaded 9mm pistol.

Sometimes I seem rude. I was distracted and forgot to smile when you greeted me in the store because I was remembering the anguished, whispered confession of a teenager who pushed away his drowning brother to save his own life.

Sometimes I'm not as sympathetic as you'd like. I'm not concerned that your 15-year-old daughter is dating an 18-year-old because I just comforted the parents of a young man who slashed his own throat while they slept in the next bedroom. I was terse on the phone because I resented the burden of having to weigh the value of two lives when I was pointing my gun at an armed man who kept begging me to kill him. I laugh when you cringe away from the mess in your teen's room because I know the revulsion of feeling a heroin addict's blood trickling toward an open cut on my arm. If I was silent when you whined about your overbearing mother it's because I really wanted to tell you that I spoke to one of our high school friends today. I found her mother slumped behind the wheel of her car in a tightly closed garage. She had dressed in her best outfit before rolling down the windows and starting the engine.

On the other hand, if I seem totally oblivious to the blood on my uniform, or the names people call me, or the hateful editorials, it's because I am remembering the lessons my job has taught me.

I learned not to sweat the small stuff. Grape juice on the beige sofa and puppy pee on the oriental carpet don't faze me because I know what arterial bleeding and decaying bodies can do to one's decor.

I learned when to shut out the world and take a mental health day. I skipped your daughter's 4th birthday party because I was thinking about the six children under the age of 10 whose mother left them unattended to go out with a friend. When the 3-year-old offered the dog the milk from her cereal bowl, the dog attacked her, tearing open her head and staining the sandbox with blood. The little girl's siblings had to pry her head out of the dog's jaws - twice.

I learned that everyone has a lesson to teach me. Two mothers engaged in custody battles taught me not to judge a book by its cover. The teenage mother on welfare mustered the strength to refrain from crying in front of her worried child while the well-dressed, upper-class mother literally played tug of war with her toddler before running into traffic with the shrieking child in her arms.

I learned that nothing given from the heart is truly gone. A hug, a smile, a reassuring word, or an attentive ear can bring an injured or distraught person back to the surface, and help me refocus.

And I learned not to give up, ever! That split second of terror when I think I have finally engaged the one who is young enough and strong enough to take me down taught me that I have only one restriction: my own mortality.

One week in May has been set aside as Police Memorial Week, a time to remember those officers who didn't make it home after their shift. But why wait? Take a moment to tell an officer that you appreciate her work. Smile and say "Hi" when he's getting coffee. Bite your tongue when you start to tell a "bad cop" story. Better yet, find the time to tell a "good cop" story. The family at the next table may be a cop's family.

Nothing given from the heart is truly gone. It is kept in the hearts of the recipients. Give from the heart. Give something back to the officers who risk everything they have.


About the author:
Jill Wragg is a retired Police Officer from Massachusetts. She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com This piece is copyrighted and was printed here with permission from the author. Please contact Wragg for permission to reprint.