The evil Bezos’s bots have struck again! Because my older books are “evergreen,” meaning that they’re as current, relevant, and hopefully entertaining as the day I wrote them, I decided recently to check to see if there were any new reviews written by recent readers. (I now only read and use reviews to extract material for marketing purposes, but readers should keep writing them to help other readers.) Not only were there no new reviews, but the bots had removed the old ones!

If you peruse the reviews on my “Books & Short Stories” web page or in the “My Reviews” archive of this blog, almost of those have been removed on Amazon…and for no reason! Or maybe the evil Bezos and his minions, those evil bots, think I’ve died? Or did these satanic creatures decide that any review written before some date should be discarded (reviews can and should be evergreen too!)? I should check that latter theory—I wouldn’t put it past Amazon—but I won’t waste anymore of my time worrying about that sham of an online bookstore. I’ll just up my boycott of them. And please help me with that. B&N is a far better online bookstore for all my books, and you can find all my novels there!

Some Prime readers can read books for free or “borrow” them to see if they want to read them (I guess the “peek inside,” which is enough for me, isn’t enough for them). That’s another way Amazon shafts authors. Sure, authors get 70% royalties for ebooks priced above $2.99, but most small presses provide a lot more TLC for the 15% they take than Amazon has ever done for that 30%, which is zilch!

I’ll also boycott any marketing person who dares to tell me Amazon offers the best way to become a successful, bestselling author. (That includes Penny Sansevieri and her AME minions, Laurence O’Bryan and BooksGoSocial, and many others.) That’s a load of BS! Amazon does nothing for writers except scam them! They can’t even display books properly, so they fail at something that any local bookstore can do much better with their eyes closed! (See that same web page for an explanation of what they egregiously did to me with “The Last Humans” series—it’s all in red type! I checked that too. No change!)

And an author has no recourse. You can never talk to a real person at Amazon. Customer service is also handled by bots and doesn’t even begin to deserve that name.

If I ever publish more fiction (I’ve been giving it away recently), you can be sure it won’t appear on Amazon! (#4 and #5 of the “Esther Brookstone Art Detective” series began that boycott after the fiasco with “The Last Humans” series.) I’ve wasted too much of my writing life attempting to work with Amazon!

***

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Rogue Planet. On a faraway planet, a kingdom is overthrown and a young prince fights back against the usurpers who establish an evil theocracy. Although this gives this novel a Star Wars or Game of Thrones flavor, it’s not fantasy—it’s hard sci-fi. Set in the same sci-fi universe as the “Chaos Chronicles Trilogy,” the action and suspense goes far beyond any space opera. Available wherever quality ebooks are sold, and it has a print version as well—ask for it at your local bookstore or order it from B&N.

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

I certainly wasn’t the first sci-fi writer to portray a viral pandemic, but my More than Human: The Mensa Contagion follows the progression of a contagion in human populations that was a preview of what we’re experiencing with Covid: Deadly at first and not so transmissible but then mutating to a more benign version that has “learned” not to kill so efficiently so the virus can survive.

Of course, this is no accident. Before I started that novel, I studied many aspects of viral pandemics, basically how viruses do their thing. I was super-specialized as a scientist; as a sci-fi writer, I’ve had to become more of a generalist because sci-fi themes cover most of science (assuming they’re not fantasies or space operas). Some topics I’ve had to study are: cloning, dirty bombs, possibilities for FTL travel, AI, and robotics. (You can have some fun trying to matching these up with fifteen years of works.) Becoming an amateur and armchair scientist in this self-educational enterprise, I suppose I’ve made some mistakes. (For the experts reading this, assuming they also read sci-fi, are always welcome to correct me.)

In a similar novel (similar only in its pandemic theme), The Last Humans, a virus was bioengineered and weaponized to have killer characteristics like the original Covid and speed of transmission of the new Omicron mutation. That usually doesn’t happen in nature because natural viruses tend to evolve from one extreme to the other,. But I imagined that a bioengineered virus could do both and be carried around the world on prevailing winds, no matter where the original target happened to be.

These books were warnings, of course, at least from the viral point of view. I will never claim to be prescient, but I can always say, “I told you so,” because I did. I studied the science!

And that brings me to an important question: Do people who diss science, don’t believe it, and believe the many falsehoods about our natural world and universe instead, do these people read sci-fi? Do they ever read anything beyond the lies and conspiracy theories propagated on social media and outlets like Fox News? I suspect not., At the most, they think Marvel Comics characters and Harry Potter tell us how the real world works! Their take on the real world is pure fantasy. Maybe these people could benefit by reading hard sci-fi, not fantastic tales from Hollywood, TV, or social media that just amplify and pander to their ignorance?

***

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You’ll find the ebook versions of the novels mentioned above at most online retailers that sell quality ebooks. A print version of The Last Humans is also available.

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

Consider this article a follow-up to the one titled “My Lost Novels.” While #6 in the “Esther Brookstone Art Detective” series is a free PDF download and #7 will be, I’ll preview both books here. The previews follow the summaries for each novel.

Defanging the Red Dragon. Esther Brookstone, ex-MI6 spy and ex-Scotland Yard Inspector in the Art and Antiques Division, and her husband, Bastiann van Coevorden, ex-Interpol agent, along with NYPD homicide detective Rolando Castilblanco and his wife, TV reporter Pam Stuart, become embroiled in geopolitical intrigue as the West tries to thwart a plan China has for stealing its nuclear submarine secrets. Taking place mostly in the US and UK, this suspenseful story has multiple twists and turns and is also the tale of two cities, New York and London, and the bustling life found in both, from the rich and powerful to the most scurrilous criminal elements. Here’s the preview:

The waiting ended. Esther was the first to see the twinkling light on the ocean’s horizon, but she didn’t tell the other two.

When Crosby saw it, he brandished the knife again.

“Out, old woman! They’ve come for us.” He seemed relieved. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it quick. We have to go through a thorough basic training after enlisting.”

She exited the car and stood by the door. He came around the front, the Chinese man following him. When they passed dead center in front, she hit the alarm button on her key fob. The headlights and taillights started flashing, and the horn blared and alternated with a siren moving up and down through several octaves. The two were momentarily blinded, and Esther dashed off into the brush and tall seagrass at the side of the car park. She didn’t get far, though.

In the dark, she could only make out the dark form, a shadowy threat, and part of that shadow corresponded to a rifle. Military-style automatic, she thought. She weighed her chances against this new foe. One on one, but he has a gun.

The alarm stopped, so she could hear what he said. “Quiet, Mrs. Brookstone!” came the hissed whisper. “We’re getting into position. Come with me.”

They moved closer to the boundary between beach and vegetation determined by a tall berm about half her height. She felt much better now, and even more so when she heard the whump-whump-whump from a helicopter that reminded her of that first extraction in East Germany. A loud megaphone warned the two from the car and any scrotes on the beach to freeze and put up their hands. That warning was answered by gunfire.

“SCO19 from the Met?” she said to the stranger.

“MI5, madam. Can you shoot a gun?”

“Damn right I can!”

Intolerance. Esther Brookstone, ex-MI6 spy and ex-Scotland Yard Inspector in the Art and Antiques Division, becomes involved in solving a cold case, a murder committed in Ireland years earlier; in thwarting a plot to kill immigrants and refugees; and in a murder case involving a famous Irish author. Her husband, Bastiann van Coevorden, an ex-Interpol agent and now a consultant for MI5, and various others help her in these cases. As one character proclaims, “God help me. She turns up everywhere.” Life after Brexit has become very dangerous in the British Isles! Here’s the preview:

Seamus, swinging the chain like a wild man with a whip, met Ben as he put foot on the landing. He didn’t even have time to shoot. Ben fell backwards, taking his colleague with him. Nate saw Seamus moving down the stairs toward him. He picked up that second man’s gun and emptied the whole cartridge. Yet Seamus kept coming, blood pouring from his huge chest.

Nate ducked under the chain and punched Seamus in the chest. That enraged the man, who tossed the chain over the stair rail and grabbed Nate. The DI felt his ribs crack and his breath leaving his lungs, but he managed to pull unbalance his foe. They tumbled down the stairs. Nate landed on top of Seamus.

“You okay, Guv?” Ben called down to Nate, who was slow to get up.

“Cracked ribs, I think. You?”

“Could be better. I think that damn chain broke my jaw. Thank God for the helmet.”

“And thank God this bastard is dead. And here we were only going to interrogate him.”

Of course, they were going to do that with caution. After hearing Kat’s tale, Nate had been sure that Seamus was their man.

Nate looked at the body. Would they ever have the full story? What had gone through this crazy man’s mind?

Nate sat on the first riser and called for EMTs, SOCOs, and the pathologist. They would take a while to sort things, but for him the case was closed. He then remembered someone else he needed to call, someone he felt very close to.

“Hello? Sara? We have Tommy’s killer.”

***

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To get these two novels…. It’s easy: Go to the list of free fiction you’ll find on the “Free Stuff & Contests” web page, click on the title you want, and start reading…or click on the PDF download button to get your own personal copy. Tell your relatives and friends about the novels. They can either do the same thing, or you can copy your PDF and give them a copy. I only ask you to please respect the copyright and not sell any copies you make for profit.

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas! 

I’ve written a few novels you might not know exist, so I’m calling them the “lost novels.” How did they get lost? The primary reason was Covid. I’m always writing new fiction, more so during the pandemic—short stories, novellas, and novels—and the manuscripts of the novels started piling up, forming a log jam I had to undo. Consequently, they’re all self-published (the most efficient way to publish!), so I’d like to remind all readers of this blog that they exist.

First, there is The Last Humans: A New Dawn. Not only was the publication of that novel delayed, Amazon’s bots lost it (see the explanation on the “Books & Short Stories” web page—I’ve also discussed the problem in other blog posts). It’s the sequel to The Last Humans, of course. I used Draft2Digital (D2D) to publish it, and it’s available (ebook format only) at all that aggregator’s affiliated retailers, including Amazon (although it’s hard to find there (again see the aforementioned web page).

The next two lost novels were also published using D2D, but, after the previously described attack of the Amazon bots, I didn’t trust Amazon (authors can pick the D2D affiliates they want to use). The ebooks Palettes, Patriots, and Prats and Leonardo and the Quantum Code, #4 and #5 in the “Esther Brookstone Art Detective” series, can be purchased online most everywhere else, but not from Amazon. (You might have missed Death on the Danube, #3 in the series, as well. That does have a print version, and it’s available on Amazon and at most online retailers.)

Now we come to the interesting part: The next two “Esther Brookstone” novels will be really lost if you aren’t paying attention. In the middle of December, 2021, I offered Defanging the Red Dragon, #6 in the series (technically, it’s also #8 in the “Detectives Chen & Castilblanco” series) as a free PDF download, a holiday gift for my readers. The subtitle is “A Brookstone-Castilblanco Holiday Adventure” because it takes place during the holidays. Otherwise, it’s yet another crime novel in the series.

“Esther Brookstone” #7 is so lost that it isn’t even available yet! When the manuscript for Intolerance is ready, I’ll also turn it into a free PDF download. Watch for it!

Neither #6 nor #7 have spiffy covers, by the way. The Last Humans: A New Dawn and #4 and #5 in the “Esther Brookstone” series do. The reason to skimp on the covers for #6 and #7 is simple: If they had spiffy covers, I’d have to charge something! (That’s the major reason I charge $0.99 for the collection Sleuthing, British Style. I started giving away short fiction a while ago, but that collection was a test run for D2D.) I believe covers on PDFs are like those cover pages for faxes—they’re something you might as well skip when you print the document. (You don’t know what a fax is? Lucky you, missing all that screeching when you mistakenly dial a fax number! Faxes were quite useful before cellphones, though.)

You can get your copy of Defanging the Red Dragon easily enough. Just go to my “Free Stuff & Contests” web page, peruse the list of free downloads, and click on the title. Voila! That’s what you’ll have to do for Intolerance too. Keep checking that list. (Okay, I can’t claim that these two novels are completely free. You’ll have to expend some energy to make that click!)

I think I’ll update this article and repost it every January. I don’t want my novels to ever feel lost again!

***

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Defanging the Red Dragon. The sleuths Chen, Brookstone, Cadstilblanco, and van Coevorden are all together in one novel! In this sixth book in the “Esther Brookstone Art Detective” series, they have to try to stop a Chinese spy ring that’s out to steal military secrets, but a few other cases become a distraction for the quartet: Finding the gang member who attacked Castilblanco’s daughter in NYC and combatting Asian hate in England, for example. You can download this novel for free—see the end of the article above. Intolerance, #7 in the “Esther Brookstone” series, will be available soon!

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

Twitter now is under new management. While I expect some changes as a result, compared to other social media sites, authors will find Twitter the easiest one to use. Unlike my political blog at pubprogressive.com (I post my more political articles there now), Twitter is a mixed message board for me: I mix political tweets with ones about reading, writing, and publishing.

First, let me say that it’s the best way for authors to learn to write blurbs and construct “elevator pitches.” They can learn to distill the important information into concise, to-the-point messages.

Tweets allow prospective readers to decide if your fiction is something they want to try and old fans to keep up with what you’re doing in your writing life. Even political tweets (I have more of those than explicitly book-related ones) show that your books might contain some important themes readers can identify with (no author can appeal to everyone…or should).

Unfortunately, a certain orange-skinned, straw-haired moron gave Twitter a bad name, weaponizing it. Authors might want to avoid his example, of course. That doesn’t mean writers can’t treat controversial themes in their tweets—that shows a writer doesn’t write fluff like cozy mysteries, bodice rippers, or escapist fantasy. Authors who show they’re human with reasonable opinions can attract more readers!

As with all of a writer’s social media presence, those people who follow the writer on Twitter are super-important. A writer doesn’t have to pander to them—they can follow and unfollow as they see fit (a writer has no control over that)—yet they’re the writer’s immediate audience on Twitter. Something attracted each one to follow, and Twitter is good about letting the tweeter know what that is.

A writer needn’t tweet a lot. Responding to readers and other authors’ tweets can be a lot of fun and a good way to gain followers. Saying what works in for you, helping another author, and so forth is a worthwhile activity in any meeting of readers and writers, and that’s what Twitter is, a meeting place where ideas are exchanged and information is shared. The less you peddle your books and the more you socialize, the better off you’ll be.

Most of all, an author should just relax and enjoy the tweeting. Rest assured it can be relaxing and a lot more fun d than editing or other marketing!

***

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“Esther Brookstone Art Detective” Series. Six novels now…and soon to be seven. Books one and two are from Penmore Press, #3 is from Carrick Publishing, #4 and #5 are from Draft2Digital, and #6 is a free PDF download. All ebooks are available most everywhere quality ebooks are sold, and you can order print versions for one through three at your local bookstore. Defanging the Red Dragon, #6, can be obtained by visiting my “Free Stuff & Contests” web page at this website. #7, Intolerance, is coming soon and will also be a free PDF download. Sound confusing? Blame Covid—the pandemic played havoc with this series! I won’t apologize for something Covid did. Get vaccinated and help end the pandemic!

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

[Note from Steve: Wow! I just squeezed this in so that I didn’t have to add 2022 to the copyright statement! Happy New Year! Because this is yet another British-style mystery story, the metaphor of the title here refers to London’s Underground aka the Tube. Trains there, unlike NYC’s, actually have four rails with two live ones. The positive third rail is still outside the rails the car wheels ride on and has the higher voltage, which is twice the fourth with negative voltage, nestled between the two regular train ones. Now there’s a factoid that might stump any Jeopardy contestant!]

Living on the Third Rail

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Nine

“Guv, you look like road kill on the A1.”

Bobby squinted one eye at him. “I feel like road kill. Say, why do they call you Samaritan? I’ve heard that nickname bandied about here at times.”

“I don’t mind it. The Samarian area even now is dominated by Cohens. We’re all Samaritans.”

“I see. Good ones, I hope. I also hope you don’t mind my curiosity. It’s not often that I’m that curious about religious history this morning.”

Chaim smiled. “I’m getting some coffee from the canteen. I’ll get you some too. Where’s your mug?”

“On my desk. I’ll be there when you return. Join me, and we’ll bounce some ideas around about the case.”

Liz soon joined them with her tea and some biscuits. The two caught her up in the discussion.

“I’d say we’re doing all we can to find Jaeger and the child. We don’t know where to further canvass. The alleyway and tip isn’t where the four victims were killed. Jaeger could be anywhere in London.”

“If he’s here at all,” Chaim said.

“Where would you go?” Bobby said.

Chaim thought a moment. “Somewhere on the North Sea coast where I could take a ferry to the continent, or to anywhere in Scandinavia. Or Ireland, same for the west coast. Anywhere but here.”

“Without the jewels?”

“He exposes himself if he tries to recover the jewels,” Liz said.

“He might decide that he can always make another jewelry heist in Europe, but he can’t do that from the king’s boarding house.” Chaim led them in a sipping ritual. “I guess it depends on how greedy he is.”

“He should pay for his crimes,” Bobby said. “Here in the UK, where he committed the most serious ones, four murders.”

“Agreed,” Chaim said, “but maybe we should announce we have the jewels just to get rid of him. He wouldn’t have any reason to stay here if we did that.”

“True,” Liz said. “But I agree with Bobby. That bastard has to pay.”

Soon the whole team was in and they were hard at it again.

***

After many hours of frustration and many calls Bobby and Liz had made to other stations around the city, his CCTV team came up with the first sighting of Fritz Jaeger. They’d spotted him near the Bridge entering the Underground. They could switch to cameras inside the station.

“Where does that train go?” Bobby said as they watched him get on carrying the baby. “Anyone know?”

“It heads toward Southwark. Lots of stops along the way, of course.”

“Let’s try to keep him in sight. Should be easy with the baby.”

Southwark was the second most dangerous borough in London. They had eyes on the last few stations on the line. They saw Jaeger exit at one near the Guy’s and St Thomas Hospital Urgent Care Center.

“Maybe the child’s sick?” Liz said.

“We have him!” Bobby said. “Liz, have Hardcastle send a SCO19 unit. The bastard might be armed. Let’s go, Chaim. You’re driving. The rest of you, keep watch on the area and let me know if Jaeger does a runner.”

Normally it would be a forty minute drive even with the light afternoon traffic. Chaim made it in twenty-five with lights flashing and siren wailing forcing people out of the way. Bobby had to hold on as his DS wove in and around buses letting off passengers and lorries making deliveries. He thought Chaim might have taken a few corners on two wheels.

They parked, left the lights flashing, and entered emergency. There was no sign of Jaeger.

Bobby flashed his warrant card to the receptionist. “I’m looking for a man with a sick baby.”

“Name?” said the nurse.

“He’s probably not using his real name. He kidnapped the child.”

She blanched. “I-I think a man came in with a baby about thirty minutes ago. He must be in an exam room by now.”

“Which room?”

“I don’t know. One of the nurses took them to it. It’d be down the hall here.”

“You take the left side and I’ll take the right,” Bobby told Chaim. He turned to the reception nurse. “Call security and tell them to close all exits.”

“We don’t have enough security personnel to do that! Not all at once.”

“Can’t be done from your security office?” She shook her head. A security lapse. “Just do the best you can.”

They had each checked five exam rooms causing a few screams and curses when Chaim pointed along the corridor. Bobby looked and saw a man with a baby disappear out a fire exit, which set klaxons blaring.

“After him!” Bobby yelled over the din.

Chapter Ten

As they passed their patrol car, the SCO19 van pulled up. “Tell them to follow me,” Bobby said to Chaim. He kept running after the fleeing jewel thief, following him right back to the tube station.

His bum leg hindered him a bit, but his legs were longer than Jaeger’s. The thief didn’t take the escalator; he took the stairs instead, two at a time. Bobby’s leg was throbbing by that time, so Jaeger was halfway down the platform when Bobby arrived there.

Read the rest of this entry »

Once again I can celebrate: I didn’t read one book on the NY Times’s list of top books for 2021! I sometimes by chance have read a few non-fiction books on that list, but not this year. And fiction books? Very rarely. Why is this?

It’s simple: I filter out all books from the Big Five publishing conglomerates the NY Times reviewers focus on because I’ve learned that I’m rarely interested in any book published by the Big Five…or reviewed by the NY Times, which rarely supports small presses or self-published authors (of course, they’ll take their money when spent on ads). That saves me a lot of time and money.

I’m an avid reader, but I prefer not to read the Big Five’s schlock. (Whether they will become the Big Four is still in question, I guess.) That probably includes all the fiction Times reviewers recommend, those books that for whatever reason manage to get a nod from the Big Five agents and acquisition editors. The old mares and stallions in the Big Five’s stables, who are ready for the glue factory because they write formulaic crap, are automatically out; they try to appeal to everyone by avoiding anything controversial. The latter’s not their fault, I suppose. Those agents and acquisition editors force those old authors into a rut they can’t escape. Or this is a just an extreme case of the Peter’s Principle.

I’m not going to say my stories are any better—I’m a lot more modest than most Big Five authors—but I write stories without any external constraints imposed by traditional publishers, especially the insidious ones of the Big Five. And the mafia of reviewers at the Times, most of whom never wrote a book and aren’t able, is in the pocket of the Big Five publishers, the best lobbyists the Big Five could have. To hell with them!

Think the above put-down of Times reviewers is a bit harsh! Okay then, keep on paying premium prices for Big Five schlock. Otherwise, please protect yourselves against the pandemic of the Big Five’s books by finding and supporting self-published authors and those who write for small, independent presses. Their works are much more worthwhile. That would be a great resolution for 2022! Happy New Year to all my readers! May you find the truly interesting stories.

***

Comments are always welcome. (See the rules on the “Join the Conversation” web page.)

The trilogy that grew. The “Esther Brookstone Art Detective” series became a trilogy in spite of the publisher of the first two novels…and then it grew. It’s still a trilogy if readers insist on reading print versions. The first three novels, Rembrandt’s Angel, Son of Thunder, and Death on the Danube, take one of the most unusual crime-fighting duos in the mystery and thriller genres from a wild, mature romance to a honeymoon cruise that will motivate readers to ask for more. And there is more!

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

[Note from Steve: Because this is yet another British-style mystery story, the metaphor of the title here refers to London’s Underground aka the Tube. Trains there, unlike NYC’s, actually have four rails with two live ones. The positive third rail is still outside the rails the car wheels ride on and has the higher voltage, which is twice the fourth with negative voltage, nestled between the two regular train ones. Now there’s a factoid that might stump any Jeopardy contestant!]

Living on the Third Rail

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Six

Before Bobby left with Wolfgang for the castle the next morning, he had another quick breakfast with Elaine.

“You look knackered, Inspector.”

“I guess I wasn’t quite ready to have an important case right at the start of my DI work. Got to get into it some time, I suppose, but it’s been exhausting, and we’re just in early days. How’s it going with you?”

Bobby didn’t want to give her any of the gory details. He eyed her and managed a smile, feeding off her concern. It was nice to have someone worried about him. This woman is special, but is she nursing me or interested in something more?

He knew veterans often had relationship issues. Especially in his current line of work, he had to fight depression. A plod often sees the worst of humanity. And seeing Maria’s body on that exam table was more than depressing. Wolfgang was right. No one deserved to have their life ended that way, especially a vibrant, young woman. And I was just at the prelim! He thought about sending someone else for the full autopsy.

“You look fresh, not knackered. In fact, you look good, Elaine.” Should I say that to a woman I hardly know? Due to Elaine’s ER schedule, there was no way to call the previous dinner a serious date. “But I bet the ER is stressful.”

“Sometimes it’s just routine, which I’m used to handling. It’s when we receive cases all at once time that it becomes hectic. That usually involves motorway accidents with multiple collisions, but we had a mass shooting once. And then there was Covid, of course.”

They talked about the pandemic a bit, and then he told her about their upcoming trip to a castle. He couldn’t give her many details, and he was surprised by her comments.

“I always wanted to live in a castle when I was a little girl. To be married to a prince like Diana was.”

“That didn’t turn out so well for her, although he still got to be king.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I have no use for the whole lot. They’re leeches who cut ribbons and such to give people their fixes for their addictions to pomp and circumstance, and they call that work.”

Those are strong words, Bobby thought, but she had said them with a smile. Of course, they echoed his sentiments.

“I never think about royalty much,” he said to continue with a more neutral and less personal discussion. “They’re like Big Ben or Trafalgar Square, you know: Just sad monuments to the golden age of the once mighty British Empire. I think most people just take them for granted like London’s air pollution. I certainly do.”

“In a sense, we both work for them.”

He laughed. “I doubt our yearly salaries even come close to what they spend in a month. And I’d wager the government spent more keeping our troops in Afghanistan than what all the royals combined spend.”

“Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like a wee raise now and then,” she said with a laugh.

“No I suspect we’re like civil servants most everywhere, lost in the lower middle class. I’m just happy to have a job right now, along with that bit of promotion that came with it.”

“So tell me about the German bloke.”

“He’s from Interpol and will be a consultant for the case for reasons I don’t want to get into. He’s headquartered in Lyon, though, so I suspect he speaks French as well as German and English.”

“Ooh-la-la,” she said. “Prussian or Bavarian?”

Bobby shrugged. How do you tell? “He’s from Munich.”

“Most likely Bavarian then. That would make him more interesting. I’ve been looking for someone to teach me the polka.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I went out and celebrated my last night at Ramstein airbase trying to dance polkas and Viennese waltzes while drunk. I gave it my all, but I think I need many more lessons. A rather heavyset fraulein flung me around the dance floor. Hardly dancing, I dare say.”

She thought a moment. “Maybe we can take lessons together.”

“I’d like that, but fair warning to your toes if I step on them.”

“I want to learn some Latin dances too.”

“Are you planning a new career?”

“Heavens no! There’s just a certain Met inspector I’d like to dance with.”

He smiled. “Now I’m jealous. Who is he?”

“You, idiot! Who knows? You might also be my Prince Charming. Just call me Cinders.”

He thought she might be mixing up her fairy tales, but he liked her comments.

***

“I heard you were at Ramstein,” Wolfgang said as they walked towards the castle’s entrance.

“I didn’t get to see much of the local color,” Bobby said, showing his prosthetic.

“I noticed that. Oh well, you can always take a holiday in Germany. Munich’s the best place to go, unless you want to float down the Danube and visit Austria as well.”

“And I heard you’re from there.” Bobby smiled at Wolfgang. “Bundespolizei.”

“Guilty as charged. And I like to promote my home town.”

“To the chore at hand. How did these people get this castle again? They’re not British toffs.”

“They bought it, I suppose. We don’t have that information. Aren’t your aristocrats getting so poor with the tax hikes that they’re selling off everything?”

“Some have been doing that all along, long before Brexit and Covid. It takes quite a dosh to maintain a place like this.” Bobby studied the front door. “I think we have to pull this ring. Careful. Big Ben-like chimes might sound.”

Bobby was right. The door chimes sounded from deep within the castle; for the sound to reach them through the solid wooden door, they had to be loud. He waited a bit and then pulled the chain again. He was about to pull it a third time when a tall old man in a butler uniform appeared.

“DI Robert Sherman of Scotland Yard and Interpol agent Wolfgang Lange.” They showed him their credentials. “We have an appointment with Mr. and Mrs. Girardi.”

“Of course. Follow me, gentlemen.”

They were led down a long hall and then into a sitting room that looked like something from Buckingham Palace.

“You may take seats over by the fireplace. Shall I bring you tea service?”

“That would be splendid,” Wolfgang said with a smile.

The tea service arrived before Mr. and Mrs. Girardi: Four delicate China cups; a large matching teapot, with its sugar bowl and milk pitcher; and a plate of cakes.

“Don’t get used to it,” Bobby told Wolfgang in a whisper.

“They’re not English toffs, but they live like ones,” Wolfgang said.

Bobby thought it was prudent to wait for their hosts, who soon appeared. After introductions and taking seats, the aunt became mother. She seemed to glide upon a magic cloud of perfume as she performed the ritual, giving everyone tea and then offering the cakes. With the tea, she pointed to the sugar cubes and milk; when it was his turn, Bobby declined the milk and signaled for one cube. She winked at him and smiled.

Is she flirting, implying the one cube was perfect because I’m already so sweet? Or is it all just my imagination? Maybe the years spent in Afghanistan with mostly sweaty, unwashed men had affected how he related to women and didn’t permit a close but socially acceptable connection. He thought of Elaine.

But Bobby connected with the pair of Swiss ex-pats. They seemed like nice people, but a police detective had to be more objective. Niceness could always just be a charade. Let’s see if it is.

Mr. Girardi, who looked like one of the gnome-bankers from the Harry Potter movies, albeit more pleasant, spoke in his soft, gravelly voice.

“And what brings you to Pembroke Castle, gentlemen? Our humble abode isn’t the most famous one, of course, but we welcome you all the same.”

Mrs. Girardi winked at them and smiled again. She was much younger than her husband but deferred to him. She knows her place, Bobby thought.

“An urgent family matter, perhaps. Have you spoken to your niece Maria recently?”

“Is she the missing person your sergeant mentioned when she rang?” Bobby nodded. “She’s hardly missing then. She’s still living in Italy, I presume. Milan, to be precise.”

Bobby decided to shake up the bloke a bit. Sometimes shock value was warranted. “I regret that I must correct that presumption. We found Maria Girardi’s body in a London alleyway.”

“Oh my Lord!” Mrs. Girardi covered her mouth after uttering her first words.

“That is terrible news,” said Mr. Girardi. He looked genuinely sad. “Have you informed her parents?”

“No. We understand Maria and they were estranged.” Wolfgang was studying the pair’s reactions as much as Bobby. Did he too doubt their concern was authentic?

Mr. Girardi’s answer neither confirmed nor denied that. Instead he said, “Maria was always a bit headstrong. She is—was an independent young lady, to say the least.”

“Did you know Interpol has been looking for her as one of five suspects who stole jewels in Italy?” Bobby said. “Milan, to be precise.”

The husband looked at his wife and then back at Wolfgang. “Lord no! When she was here, she mentioned nothing about that.”

“So…” Bobby said, “she was here.”

The old Swiss-Italian realized his mistake. “We only try to protect her, Inspector. She wouldn’t give us any details, but she was frightened and wanted to hide here for a while. I thought it had something to do with my brother.”

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As much as I find the NY Times “Book Review” worthless to me as both reader and author, the Times published an interesting editorial about Amazon on Sunday, December 5. (It wasn’t in the “Book Review,” of course. Heaven forbid they say anything against Amazon there!) While more verbose than necessary—the Times’s reporters and contributors tend to bloviate in general—that opinion piece laid out the case against Amazon and pointed out how Bezos’s retail behemoth is destroying American publishing, if not the world’s; and how, as it destroys bookstores, it no longer deserves to be called one.

One charge against Amazon in that article describes how I’ve been victimized all too often by the retail giant: Bots have taken over that “online bookstore.” There are no humans in charge, so you can’t find a real person to help you, no matter how hard you try. My most painful experience where an attack of Amazon bots occurred was when they confused the two books in “The Last Humans” series. I could get neither human nor bot to fix that. (Fair warning if you want to purchase both books on Amazon—you’ll need a lot of patience and need to follow the instructions in red on my “Books & Short Stories” web page to do it. You’ll make your life easier by buying them from B&N.) Probably not surprising, but that was the straw that broke this camel’s back: I’ll never put any more new ebooks up for sale on Amazon again!

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[Note from Steve: Because this is yet another British-style mystery story, the metaphor of the title here refers to London’s Underground aka the Tube. Trains there, unlike NYC’s, actually have four rails with two live ones. The positive third rail is still outside the rails the car wheels ride on and has the higher voltage, which is twice the fourth with negative voltage, nestled between the two regular train ones. Now there’s a factoid that might stump any Jeopardy contestant!]

Living on the Third Rail

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Three

Bobby found Elaine’s little motorcar comfortable once he was inside, but getting into the old Morris was difficult, for both his size and bum leg that was always stiff that late in the day.

“I’ll try to remember to bring some axle grease for you next time,” she said with a smile as he made himself more comfortable.

“I’m good. I’ve been in far tighter places before—tanks, overcrowded Humvees and Jeeps, sitting right-side up or upside down, or in a roll downhill. This is heaven in comparison. Nice to have a pretty chauffeur too and not a sweaty colleague driving.”

She was silent until she had to stop for a light. She turned to him, a worried look on her face. “Let’s not ruin dinner by talking about any of that. Please. I hate war, even though I love soldiers. They go through hell. I know that, but I don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”

“Right. But you won’t want to hear about some cases I had with the Met either. Soldiering and policing—that’s me most of my adult life. So we have to talk about you. No rings, so you’re not engaged or married. Any boyfriends?”

“Not currently. And not for a while, in fact. No time for a serious relationship, to put a fine point on it. I’m an ER nurse, remember?” He nodded. “It’s better now. Definitely less hectic than what we experienced during the pandemic. If I’d had that PM as a patient, I might have forgotten the Hippocratic oath.”

“Family?”

“Mum’s in a Bristol nursing home with dementia. Whole place got the virus. She was one of the few who survived. Pops is gone five years now. Not unusual for people our age. Your family?”

“I’m the youngest of three siblings, the baby that arrived by accident. Our parents passed on, seems like years ago. The oldest sibling, my sister, is a barrister. My older brother’s a teacher. They’re both a lot older than I am. We exchange holiday cards, and I received something like a ‘Get well soon’ from my sis when I was in that German hospital recovering. I’m basically on my own.”

“So…are we both stupid to lose ourselves in our work?”

“I suppose. Sad, huh? Aren’t we the glum chums?”

“Here we are. A pint or two will cheer us.”

“And the food?”

“It’s usually great, and there’s lots of it. But if it isn’t tonight, we’ll just have to toss down a few more pints. We can always call a taxi. I’ve left my motor here overnight in the car-park before. Nobody would bother stealing this old thing. Fair warning: I need an early evening. Graveyard shift coming up, so my limit is two. With more and the food, I’d have trouble staying awake.”

He could tell by the way she gripped the wheel and blathered on a bit that she was nervous. His sleuthing skills weren’t quite up to determining why. And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had dinner with a woman.

***

Elaine dropped him at his boarding house not long after dinner. Mrs. Lawton, the owner, was still awake reading one of her romance novels.

“Saw a lovely young lass drop you off, Mr. Bobby,” she said, sticking her head out the entrance to her sitting room. She winked at him. “You work fast. Who is she?”

“Just a new friend I met. Sorry I’m late.”

The old woman looked back inside, probably at the huge grandfather clock in the back corner of the room. “Not very. Tomorrow I’ll try to remember to give you a key so you can come and go as you please. I never want to stand in the way of young love.”

“Again, she’s just a friend. Good night, Mrs. Lawton. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

“You missed it today.”

“I had a lot to do.”

“No problem. I’ll credit that. I start serving at seven. Last service by nine. Have a good evening.”

Bobby moved up the stairs with a smile on his face. He’d been lucky to find the place. Maybe Mrs. Lawton would mother him too much, but he’d be in no hurry to change lodging until after he was sorted in his new tasks at work. One thing at a time, Bobby, one thing at a time.

But should he follow up with Elaine? She’d seemed to imply she was very busy with no time for relationships. He’d be busy too. If anything happened, it would have to occur with both of them skirting around their stressful work. But other people did that, didn’t they? Time would tell.

He did a bit of a lie-in the next morning, had a leisurely breakfast served by Mrs. Lawton and her son, David, a friendly fellow who reminded Bobby of Aaron Brody, another simple soul. The world needs more like them.

He went to his appointment with Dr. Patel.

The office was located more toward the center of London in a modern skyscraper. Bobby found the suite number in the lobby, 8H. He was impressed when he entered the office. Definitely not NHS! Bobby couldn’t figure out how the Met could afford the doctor’s services. Maybe this is an exceptional exam? How much would the medic charge? Bobby could imagine several monthly wages.

***

“Mr. Sherman. This way please.” An older nurse led him past the receptionist’s desk into a corridor and then on to an exam room. “Please detach your prosthetic. The doctor will be with you in a moment.”

When the doctor entered, he reminded Bobby of some characters in Willy Wonka & the Candy Factory, an Oompa-Loompa-like fellow with a wide grin and sparkling, brown eyes, but he couldn’t remember which version of the movie he was remembering. Bobby regretted making the racial stereotype, especially when the small man turned out to be a serious yet amiable professional.

He examined the prosthetic. “As a child, I read a novel once where the main character had several of these, even some specialty ones with tools. Ever read The Moon is a Harsh Mistress? It’s a sci-fi story by Robert Heinlein. I found the idea of functional prosthetics fascinating, so here I am, ye olde prosthetics expert. I get paid for examining all of you plods, though, prosthetics or not. Just strip to your briefs. I’ll take your prosthetic for a moment to examine it. Be right back.”

When he returned, Patel waved the artificial hand and said, “They did a fine job. Let me check the stump first.” Bobby felt a bit strange as the doctor examined the stump with its multiple contacts. “Yes, I see how they did it. That must have taken some time, but you should have nearly full functionality. Let’s see the leg. Can you stand alone on it?” For another ten minutes, Patel poked and prodded. “You’ll have a great left hook.” He laughed.

“Someone else said that.”

“I’ll write on the form that you’re fit enough to go out and about and nick all the bad people. I’d hate to be a criminal and get in a fight with you. You can dress and go back to the waiting room. The nurse will bring your forms out. Good luck back in the Met, Inspector Sherman.”

“Not quite yet, but by the end of the day, I suppose.”

Chapter Four

“Welcome back to civilization, Guv,” DS Cohen said upon entering Bobby’s new office, his hand extended in greetings. “You might not remember me. I was only a detective constable when you were here as a DS.”

“Take a chair.” When he was seated, Bobby smiled at him. “I do remember you. I just want to meet the whole team one on one, like I said at our team meeting. By the way, first-name basis. I’m Bobby. You’re Chaim?” He nodded. “How’s the nipper?”

He laughed. “Two now, Guv—um, Bobby. A boy and girl. Everyone’s fine, thank you.”

“Your wife’s a pathologist associated with the next station over, right?”

“She works with them usually, correct. I sometimes see her in her official capacity when things get hectic here and old Doc Jepson gets overwhelmed. The Met’s just one big happy family.”

“Except when it isn’t,” Bobby said with a smile. “I have yet to see you in action as a DS.” Chaim frowned. “Don’t worry. We’ll work fine together. I know a lot more about being a DS than being a DI, though, so have patience with me.”

“You worked under DCI Hardcastle. We all respect him, and he’s a great role model.”

“I hope to be the same, and I’ll be as demanding, within reason…and I will not be overbearing. Please let me know about any problems here at work. I’m a good listener. Any questions?”

“Not now. I’ll pipe up when I have them.”

“Good. Could you send in DS Wilson?”

***

By one p.m., Bobby had finished interviewing his new team: two sergeants and four constables making up a team of seven, counting himself. That makeup could change depending on a particular case’s requirements. And, on occasion, some DIs ran two teams or more, taking almost the role of a DCI. For now, Hardcastle was breaking him in with just the one team.

Except for DS Cohen, who had been promoted to Bobby’s old position from another station’s team, the team was Hardcastle’s old one, including himself, the DI now responsible for all of them. He thought it was an awesome responsibility, but a challenge that he gladly accepted.

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