[Note from Steve: I’m having way too much fun writing these British-style mysteries to stop now. This one combines the amateur-detective theme of Irish writer Declan O’Hara paired with the professional-detective theme of Scotland Yard’s DS Margaret Bent. Enjoy.]

Poetic Justice

Copyright 2021, Steven M, Moore

Chapter Thirteen

Declan was echoing Maggie’s thoughts. Am I involved in this mess and completely in the dark about why?

He thought her focus on the Irish Rovers was one alternative, but Archimedes had shown that Babbitt had sent the threatening email. If the PI was kidnapped, how could he do that? And if the Rovers were responsible for everything, why had they made the email appear to be from Babbitt?

An alternative might be that Babbitt wasn’t really kidnapped. Maybe he was a Rover! The Rovers might find the Jamaican useful for that part of their smuggling operation that involved drugs. Could an Irish crime syndicate have Jamaican members? Babbitt worked for Heathrow’s firm, but what if the Rovers also used the PI to monitor the barrister? Had Heathrow double-crossed them in some way, and they ordered Babbitt to get rid of the barrister? Or was something else entirely different going on?

He decided to do some of his own sleuthing. He would start by finding out if Gilby and Babbitt had really gone to Jamaica. He rang Laurie Lancaster, Babbitt’s PA. He explained who he was and how he was peripherally involved in the Met’s case.

“I just heard from Mr. Babbitt, via email,” he told her. “I don’t think he was kidnapped. Maybe that photo was fake. I’m betting he’s still in Jamaica for some reason. You don’t happen to know where he was staying there, do you?”

There was silence in which he heard traffic noise. He also heard her gum-chewing increase as she thought. “I think I saw a brochure on his desk. Let me check. Hold on.” She soon returned. “It’s Secrets Wild Orchard in Montego Bay.”

“Thanks, Laurie. You’re a doll.”

“You sound nice. Come around and say hello sometime, Luv.”

“I will.”

He was amazed at his ability to lie now. Desperation? He might be telling a few more lies in the future. He called Secrets.

He wasn’t surprised that Babbitt wasn’t there. Neither was his “wife.” But their departure date didn’t correspond to their arrival date on that day he’d seen Gilby kidnapped, the same day Babbitt supposedly was also kidnapped. Had they gone somewhere else?

The pleasant island lilt of the clerk continued as she asked him why he was looking for Mr. Babbitt. Maybe she’s more suspicious than Laurie? Declan smiled. She should have asked him that first.

“I’m trying to trace him. I have an important message for him about a sick aunt. His office manager told me where he’d gone.”

“Oh, how sad,” the clerk said in her best English accent. “Let me check if he or the missus left a forwarding address.” She soon returned with her answer. He used a variation of his lie with Laurie and rang off.

Grand Cayman? He called Archimedes.

***

Maggie’s tech-wizard passed Declan off to Raul. He’d sounded overworked, so Declan didn’t mind. Raul was also a tech-wizard. Fortunately Clarissa was in day-care.

Declan was at his favorite pub having a pint and dinner when Raul called. He explained he had a contact in Grand Cayman, at one of the posh hotels there, the Westin.

“Your request presented a bit of a challenge. You owe me a dinner. I like Indian. So does Archie.”

“Done, even if your information doesn’t satisfy. You and Archimedes deserve it.”

“My friend has friends at banks and other hotels there. Here’s the name of the hotel and their bank.” He rattled off the name of another hotel, Kimpton Seafire Resort, and a bank in George Town. “Could those two be trying to avoid some of the king’s taxes?”

“Maybe. I guess Jamaica wouldn’t work for what I’m thinking. I’ll tell you and Archimedes later if my hunch is correct.”

He rang off and took two sips from his glass to settle his thoughts. If his hunch were correct, he still wouldn’t know why he was involved, but he could see Maggie interrogating the two lovebirds to find out.

He stared at his moby. He knew it was time to get Maggie and Ezra involved, assuming they’d listen to his theory. They might think it was only the imagination of a novelist, a writer of mysteries and thrillers. That would be their mistake. With his father and sister and contacts they’d provided, he knew how coppers solved crimes…or failed to do so. His stories, even though they were fiction, were constructed to seem real. He thought they were good and hoped one day that book royalties would become a major source of income. If not, he might have to accept some assignments in war zones to keep the ‘zine editors happy.

He found Maggie’s number in his mobile’s contact list and rang her. It went to voicemail so he left a short message for her: If you’re not too busy, give me a call. I have a theory. Declan.

He knew she might verbally bash him for meddling again, so he was surprised when she walked into the pub.

***

“I’ll have what you have and bangers and mash,” she said, sitting down opposite him. “You’re treating.”

Her way of bashing him? All the same, he smiled. “Good to see you again. Rough day?”

“We talked with an Irish Rover who’s in the nick. If we can believe what he said, the Rovers didn’t kill Heathrow. I don’t know about your threats, though.”

“Archimedes traced the email to Babbitt, remember?” She nodded. “His partner Raul helped me trace Babbitt to Jamaica and Grand Cayman. I don’t think the Rovers killed Heathrow. I think it was Babbitt, maybe with Gilby as an accomplice.”

She mulled that over, her ale arrived, and she downed half of it. “Okay. While this sounds like a plot from one of your novels, go on while I’m eating.” She tucked into her food.

Declan watched her for a moment. She was a dainty eater, but she could tuck away food with enthusiasm. Maybe she skipped lunch?

“Okay, I’ll admit my theory is farfetched. Babbitt worked for Heathrow’s firm from time to time and was sweet on Gilby, and maybe vice versa, unless he was using her. In any case, she found out that Heathrow was aiding the Rovers to launder their illegal proceeds—I’m sure there’ll be records of that—and got Gilby to skim a bit of them, that money winding up in their accounts in Grand Cayman. The Rovers found out and killed Heathrow, thinking he was the culprit. Or maybe Heathrow found out what his employees were doing, so Babbitt killed him. Variations on a theme.”

“My Lord, where do you come up with this stuff? Do you smoke dope?”

He smiled. “It fits the facts.”

“Except for the fact that it doesn’t explain why they warned you to stop meddling.”

“Which I wasn’t doing. You’re obviously aware that I write novels. I try to make my crime stories as real as possible. My lead coppers have been male so far, but that might change.”

She pointed her fork at him. “Don’t you dare. That’s too much reality!”

“Apparently, so was The Calais Connection where I describe a French crime syndicate smuggling goods from France, read EU, to England, after Brexit. Their operation all goes south when an accountant in Dover starts skimming some of the profits.”

“So someone in the Rovers actually reads?”

“No, either Babbitt or Gilby do.”

She almost dropped the fork, remembering the book on Rebecca Gilby’s writing table.

“Declan O’Hara, I think you just solved this case.”

 Chapter Fourteen

The hunt for Rebecca Gilby produced no results; the one for Ron Babbitt did. The DGSI stopped him on the French side of the chunnel, and he was extradited back to London. DI Abbott seemed pleased when Bent told him.

“Half the pair is better than none,” he said to Maggie. “Assuming O’Hara’s right, of course. Can you give Babbitt some stick?”

“We have enough on him to put him away at least for a bit. I missed one important clue, sir.”

“Good that you’re honest about it, but what was that?”

“O’Hara’s novel on Gilby’s reading table.”

“Had you read it?”

“No. He’s written several.” She remembered the book at Heathrow’s. “I like to start a series with the first book in the series. When I have time to read. I often don’t.”

“Same here. We’re not paid to read or be literary critics, though. We miss a few things now and then, but usually not for lack of reading. I wouldn’t worry about missing that clue.”

Why is he being so nice to me? “Shall I outline what we have on Babbitt and Gilby?”

Read the rest of this entry »

Settings are important in fiction. They represent the stage where the fictional drama takes place. Some of mine are real; some I imagine (the ET settings are obviously creations of my imagination); and some that seem real aren’t (Google Maps and Google Earth are an author’s useful tools, though). You can have some fun trying to guess what places I’ve actually visited (probably more than you think).

Most of Chen and Castilblanco’s cases begin in NYC, which I know well enough; it’s just thirteen miles east of us via NJ’s Route 3 and the Lincoln Tunnel, but those cases often expand beyond NYC and the tri-state area to the rest of the US and abroad. I know Europe fairly well too, as well as South America, Canada, and Mexico. My travels allowed me not only to learn about our wonderful human diversity (although my home state of California has plenty), but also to learn about different places.

But what I don’t know, I can imagine. If you’re going to write fiction, you need imagination You can write non-fiction without it…maybe…but it’s absolutely necessary to have an imagination to create places you haven’t yet visited, or characters living in those places, so that the fiction seems real to the reader.

One of the most interesting places I’ve visited is Ireland. In addition to being sort of an ancient homeland (for this half-blooded Irishman), it’s just a fascinating place. It’s also where I met A. B. Carolan, my reclusive collaborator, at a place called Blarney Castle (storytelling needs a lot of blarney as well as imagination). It’s odd that it doesn’t appear much in A. B.’s or my stories (his are sci-fi tales, of course). In Palettes, Patriots and Prats, there are a few scenes, and it’s rumored that Esther Brookstone had a wee fling there with some Irishman in Kilarney, but that’s not where those stories take place. In a novella that ends tomorrow, Declan O’Hara, the main character, is from Donegal, like A. B., but maybe subconsciously I haven’t wanted to spoil lovely Eire by putting lowlifes, ETs, or androids from my fiction there?

South America figures prominently in my fiction, though; I’ve both lived and traveled there. Colombia was home base for many trips to conferences in the US and Europe where I spent a lot of time before and after such events traveling and meeting people. I had two long stays in Italy and Spain as a visiting scientist that also served as bases to tour Europe, where you can hop on a train in the evening, sleep the night away, and wake up in a new country.

Perhaps the most obvious influence of my travels on my fiction is found in Death on the Danube. The book’s plot (except for flashbacks) follows a real and wonderful riverboat cruise (without any murder taking place, of course) down that ancient waterway. It would have been hard to imagine that itinerary on my own.

Authors should take advantage of such travel whenever possible. The more real the places in our prose seem, the more our readers will feel that they are experiencing new or remembered places too. That’s all part of the great adventure readers can find in books.

***

Comments are always welcome.

More than Human: The Mensa Contagion. Apocalypse and first contact are two ubiquitous sci-fi themes. I like to stir conventional themes and plots up a bit, though. Here first contact comes via an ET virus that kills at first (an apparent apocalypse that’s worse than Covid) but benignly creates Homo sapiens, version 2.0. What do these new humans do? They colonize Mars and later meet the makers of the virus, in a manner of speaking (this isn’t your normal first contact). You’ll have some fun with this one, and, like many sci-fi novels, it will make you think about possible futures. Available wherever quality ebooks are sold.

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

Note from Steve: How could I forget? October is a busy holiday month—Columbus Day aka Native Americans’ Day and Hallowed Eve (watch for those kiddies, whatever day your town celebrates it!). But the whole month is Hispanic Heritage Month. I was once so immersed in Hispanic culture (in Colombia) that I dreamed in Spanish even when I returned to the States. Of course, I enjoyed a lot of that culture as I grew up in my native California. So, readers, let’s celebrate all these holidays!

I can understand readers have different preferences for non-fiction, but their preferences for fiction often make zero sense to me. You see it in the NY Tines “Book Review” (I can only recommend that Sunday supplement for the bottom of your bird cage). “Oprah’s Book Club,” “The GMA Book Club,” and many others, where they think they can tell readers what to read and bludgeon readers with their opiniated schlock.

You’re probably thinking, “Just another disgruntled writer who can’t compete!”…or something similar. You’re wrong. Most of my opinions here (which none of the above values, of course) originate in being a pissed-off reader. Oh, I’ve tried to find some traditionally published fiction to which the above cater and that’s worthwhile to read: The blurbs and “peek inside” features (or browsing in a bookstore or library) tell me they’re nearly always formulaic, boring stories that some agent and/or acquisitions editor has decided fits their marketing ideas (as if they do much marketing except for their old formulaic mares and stallions ready for the literary glue factory).

Traditional publishers make it difficult to enjoy reading now. No wonder people have turned to streaming video and video games for their entertainment: They can’t find anything worthwhile to read because they’ve been brainwashed by traditional publishers and their media minions into thinking only their schlock is worthwhile.

Yes, Oprah and the cast of GMA are collaborators in this literary conspiracy: I ignored Oprah’s choices, and I’m ignoring Robin Roberts’s gang’s too. I know where to find entertaining, interesting, and profound fiction, and it’s generally not what they recommend or what traditional publishers try to shove down my throat. Amazon sneakily keeps tabs on what I’ve been reading. At least their bots are smart enough to know I don’t read fiction from the bureaucratically bloated traditional publishers (readers pay for that bloat). You’d think the latter and their sycophants would change their business model and start paying attention to what avid fiction readers actually read instead of trying to force us to read something else.

The last traditionally published book I read was the exceptional pleasant surprise (the review is found at Bookpleasures—it was an honest one, so I reported on a few negatives, hence author, marketing guru, or publisher didn’t want it reposted on Amazon or my blog); it was okay. The one before that I tried and couldn’t finish was Deaver’s stupid whatever-you-call-it written in reverse. He went downhill after Garden of Beasts; I suspect his publisher had a lot to do with that. I suspect a lot of old authors like Deaver don’t really want to be boring and formulaic, but their publishers force them to be. That’s how you get series like Deaver’s or Grafton’s. Or maybe authors like them just let their publishers do that to them?

Too many readers let traditional publishers get away with this. If you’re an avid fiction reader like me, please join me in boycotting traditional publishing by reading entertaining, interesting, and profound fiction from self-published authors. You’ll be happier. And don’t fall into the trap if another reader says, mostly to one-up you, “Have you read X. It’s in the NY Times bestsellers list.” That poor sucker doesn’t know what he or she is missing.

***

Comments are always welcome.

More than Human: The Mensa Contagion. Apocalypse and first contact are two ubiquitous sci-fi themes. I like to stir conventional themes and plots up a bit, though. Here first contact comes via an ET virus that kills at first (an apparent apocalypse that’s worse than Covid) but benignly creates Homo sapiens, version 2.0. What do these new humans do? They colonize Mars and later meet the makers of the virus, in a manner of speaking (this isn’t your normal first contact). You’ll have some fun with this one, and, like many sci-fi novels, it will make you think about possible futures. Available wherever quality ebooks are sold.

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

[Note from Steve: I’m having way too much fun writing these British-style mysteries to stop now. This one combines the amateur-detective theme of Irish writer Declan O’Hara paired with the professional-detective theme of Scotland Yard’s DS Margaret Bent. Enjoy.]

Poetic Justice

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Ten

Declan hadn’t been too happy to hear about Heathrow’s murder. Am I next? What’s going on?

He was happy, though, that his Da had contributed some valuable information to DS Bent and provided a connection to someone more active in the Garda’s crimefighting efforts. Perhaps I should ring the old man and thank him? But he’d probably just get his mum, and she’d then be worried about him. He was worried about himself too.

He sipped his Jameson and stared out the bedroom window. The smaller bedroom gave him enough space for an in-home office. He imagined the sergeant’s digs would make him claustrophobic. He saw a mother and child from his same building in the little garden area below the window. He could imagine Bent with her child on one of those swings. Or maybe not?

The detective was intensely focused. Not self-centered but focused on her work. Ezra Harris was focused too, but the Cockney seemed less intense than Bent. Still, they worked well together. Declan just wished they’d close the case.

He was in a state. He couldn’t focus on his writing, worrying about what had occurred. He couldn’t think about Bent either. Anytime he tried either one, he was distracted by the kidnapping or the murder. Was this what it was like to be a detective?

He supposed the experience would improve his fiction writing in the long run. Nothing like being able to observe a real crime investigation, he thought with a smile. He knew that some authors like Michael Connelly had looked for that real-world experience with coppers, but he doubted that Michael had been a tunnel rat like his famous character Harry Bosch.

Of course, he also knew that the adage “write what you know” was blather and twaddle spewed forth by writing tutors who had little actual experience in writing. How could a sci-fi writer know about ETs? How could a thriller writer know about government conspiracies? Their life experience—people met, places visited, and national and world events—might influence a writer’s stories, but a lot had to be left to an author’s imagination…and the reader’s.

Those general thoughts led to other more personal ones: Am I involved in some English-Irish conspiracy? Were Gilby, Babbitt, and Heathrow part of it?

He tossed down the rest of the whiskey and went to his browser. He googled “Irish Rovers.” Most of the information was about the singers who are really Canadian, not Irish. He found nothing about the Irish syndicate.

Of course, you prat, they wouldn’t appear in a Google search! You need the Dark Web.

He knew nothing about that underbelly of the internet that criminals and terrorists loved to peruse. But he now knew someone who did.

***

Archimedes’s partner opened the door.

“Who might you be, mate?” Raul Benavides said.

“Declan O’Hara. I spoke to Archimedes the other day. I’m looking for him. Is he here? His boss said he was out, so I thought he might be home.”

“Out and about. He went to get take-away. I’m babysitting. You can come in if you like and entertain Clarissa while I make us some tea. She’s teething and in a snit about it.”

The two-bedroom flat was neat and tidy except for the toys scattered on the floor. It had a galley kitchen at the front side of the sitting room. A baby girl eyed him nervously.

“Hi Clarissa,” Declan said with a wave. She smiled and then giggled, rolling the wheels of a toy truck in her small hands.

“We try to give her exposure to boys’ toys as well as girls’,” said Raul, tracking Declan’s gaze. “So she’ll have time to determine her gender predilections as well as her religious ones.”

“I see.” Declan noticed that the counter between kitchen and sitting room was set with three place settings. Two stools and a small child’s high chair were on the sitting-room side. “I don’t want to interfere with your dinners.”

Raul shrugged. “We eat early these days. Archie often has to go back to the office.”

“Are you a house-husband?”

Raul smiled. “I guess we both are at times. During the pandemic, I was able to work online from here. I need to go in two days each week now for meetings, but that’s flexible, so I adapt to Archie’s schedule. And Clarissa’s, of course. Doctor and dentist appointments and such.”

“So you’re also a techie?”

“Not as much as Archie, although I make more money. You’d think the Met would value their IT personnel a bit more. I suppose you have a technical question for him?”

“I guess it could be for either one of you now. I want to visit the Dark Web.”

Raul frowned. “That can get you into trouble, Declan. People like Archie in the Met and MI5 agents monitor that now, and it is a dark place to be, so I can’t blame them. Criminals and terrorists use computers as much as anyone these days, maybe more so, and that’s where they often congregate.” He eyed Clarissa who was now trying to decapitate a rag doll. “Let me get her sorted and we’ll take a look. Archie’ll soon be back. We can pretend we’re internet Musketeers, the Athos, Porthos, and Aramis of technical wizarding.”

“Thank you for including me in that famous list, but I’m not that skilled. And who will be D’Artagnon?”

“We’ll have to do without him. And DS Dent can be Milady.”

Declan smiled. “You don’t like the sergeant?”

“She’s okay, I guess. She’s very demanding but not yet a villain. She helped Archie come out in that male-chauvinist environment the Met has.”

“She might agree with you about the male-chauvinist characterization, you know.”

“It’s often Archie’s fault. He lets her take advantage. You know the saying: He’s a victim of his own success. He feels obligated, so he puts her demands on his time over others, and then has to work even harder to catch up. I think his job is much more difficult than mine.”

“And that is?”

“I work for Google.”

Declan smiled. “Considering how the EU is attacking that company, the UK as well, I’d guess your job could be demanding too.”

“I don’t have to deal with the monopoly-busters. Ah, here’s Archie.”

***

Archimedes greeted Clarissa with a hug and a kiss, and then she had a fit when he wanted to put her in the high chair.

Raul made a sweeping motion with one hand. “I’ll get her started. Take care of Declan. He wants to search the Dark Web, King Charlie knows why.”

Archimedes grabbed two samosas for Declan and himself, and they went off to the hall where two laptops were set up on staggered tables. A child’s railing made an effective corral for them.

“Pull up a chair. What are you looking for?”

“Irish Rovers. Smugglers, not singers.”

“Ah, the infamous cufflink. This could be useful for work. I’ve already tried, but maybe you can come at them from another direction.”

“What would that be?”

“Ireland. I did a hurried search about activities in the UK. They’re best known as smugglers. But that old geezer Sean Fitzpatrick told Bent they’ve been around for a while. Any connections with the IRA?”

“No idea. Maybe my father knows. But that’s the general angle I want to check, the Irish side of things. It might tell us something about why I’ve been threatened.”

“Um. Have you considered they’re getting at you for something your father did?”

“Don’t go there. A lot of scrotes in Ireland would like revenge against my father.”

“Of course. That’s a measure of a successful copper. Let’s go at it. While I hammer on the keys, could you check on how Raul’s doing with Clarissa? Sometimes looking after her takes both of us.”

Declan retreated down the hallway until he saw Raul with Clarissa and waved. The baby didn’t see him. She was concentrated on a broken-up samosa. Raul smiled and rubbed his stomach without saying anything. Looks like the child has her priorities straight, Declan thought.

“All okay,” he told Archimedes when he returned.

“We do a lot of take-away because we’re so busy. Probably not good for her or us. We try to make up for it on weekends. There’s a barbecue we can use in back.”

Not vegetarians then. “With both of you working, it must be hard.”

“The good things in life don’t come easy. Ah, here’s something interesting. Take a look.”

Declan read the caption: Sign up now to join the Rovers’ crusade. A gold Celtic cross glistened below the sign-up icon. The crusade was described above the caption: Plans against Irish traitors.

“Shall we try it?” Declan said.

“Why not?” Archimedes was unsuccessful; he needed a password. The one he’d used to even get to where he was didn’t work. It probably came from the Rovers in a round-about way. “I’ll keep snooping around.” He pointed to the other laptop. “Do you have a website? I hear you’re an author.”

“I do. I don’t check it often, just the email I get from the contact page. I have a strong spam filter for comments to my blog.”

“When did you check your email last?”

Declan thought a moment. “Not since I received that threat in a text message. Let me do that.” He went to work on the laptop. “Bingo? An email containing basically the same threat, sent to me via my contact page.”

Archimedes scooted over. “Let me have the controls, co-pilot.” He hammered away at the keys. “Um. This is interesting. The person who sent this is Ron Babbitt.”

“He couldn’t have done. That photo shows him restrained back-to-back with Gilby. This is weird.”

“We’d better call Maggie or Ezra. Let me check on Clarissa and Raul again, and then I’ll call the office.”

After Archimedes talked with Bent, she asked to talk with Declan. She ordered him to stop playing detective and then rang off.

“What’s her problem?” Declan said. Maggie had been on speaker phone.

“She’s got a temper. Or she’s just worried about you. Doesn’t matter. Toning it down and subtracting out the vitriol, it’s probably good advice. I know you want to find out why you’re threatened. We didn’t find out why, but you now know who did it. I can’t imagine that Jamaican being an Irish Rover.”

“I can’t even imagine him sending the threats. He might even be a dead man now.”

“Anyone can send messages using that name. I have at least a dozen email and social media accounts, and can open a new one in any name. The internet is a damn overgrown  jungle.”

Chapter Eleven

DI Henry Abbott looked up at his sergeant. “Close the door and let’s talk.” He offered her a tea biscuit after she sat. “Here I thought we’d make this a cold case and get on with something more worthwhile. Bring me up to date, Maggie.”

She did, trying to emphasize progress. She included Declan’s most recent discovery without mentioning him, only Archimedes. Abbott didn’t interrupt her until she took a bite of biscuit and sipped her coffee; she’d brought the mug in with her.

“This case is becoming complex. I hadn’t heard about the Irish Rovers, but I know Sean Fitzpatrick. We worked a few murder cases together. Good bloke, Sean. What’s your plan?”

“I want to have a chinwag with someone in customs, somebody who can point me to a local who’s a Rover VIP. Part of the complexity is that I can’t figure out what Gilby and Babbitt’s roles are in all this. Or Declan O’Hara’s, for that matter.”

“Maintain contact with him. I know he led you to Sean, but he might be involved in some way. He’s Irish. He could be a Rover or a terrorist, you know. The younger generation still harbors bad feelings against the British. It’s an Irish tradition.”

“I’ve read a few of his articles. It seems he’s beyond that, or more the artsy type, judging by some of his poetry. He does the articles more to make money, but they have a more global perspective.”

“I see. Okay, don’t forget Gilby and Babbitt. And with Heathrow’s death, we might be able to justify an examination of his files for the cases involving the Irish on your list. I can help you with that.”

“Thanks. I’m still SIO for the case?”

“You’re doing just fine, and I thank you for stepping up and doing it. I can’t take over, even now with the murder. There’s just too much to do. Keep me posted on developments. Heathrow might have been an arse for his defense of criminals, but no one deserves to die like that.”

She nodded, picked up her mug and the remainder of her biscuit, and left Abbott’s office.

***

Michael O’Hara took a seat next to Sean Fitzpatrick’s desk. “Thanks for seeing me, Fitz.”

Sean laughed, his jowls shaking a bit. “Anything for a co-worker, old stick. What’s up? I had a chinwag with your boy’s squeeze. Not much more I can do from here.”

“They’re not in a serious relationship yet. How’d she seem to you?”

Sean, a father himself, thought a moment, unconsciously combing his bushy eyebrows with his fingers as he did. “She could be a stunner with some makeup, but I liked her, both personally and professionally. Went so far as to aver that police need more like her, good, intelligent women, thinking of your daughter.”

Michael nodded. “No ideas about why Declan’s been targeted?”

“Early days in DS Bent’s case. It might move along now, with the barrister’s murder. There’s the photo of Gilby and Babbitt too. Should put a fire under the Met’s VIPs, I dare say. It’s a complex test for Bent. Her solving it could go a long ways towards a promotion. Has Declan talked about her?”

“No, he just told her to use his name when calling me, so I have no direct comments from the lad. I’ve never had the habit of meddling in my children’s lives.” Michael saw the smile Sean was trying to hide. “Not much, anyway. Their mum does enough of that.”

“Like any good Irish mother does. Do you have any theories about the case?”

“That’s the question I had for you, old friend.”

“Um. I’m not close enough to the case to have any. It just strikes me as unusual Declan’s involved beyond his being a witness. You’d think the Irish Rovers wouldn’t bother.”

“That has occurred to me as well. He’s just another Irish writer.”

“Any good?”

“I like his journalistic-style articles. I can’t stay focused enough to read his other stuff, the poetry and prose. I guess I’d feel better if he wrote in Gaelic.”

Sean laughed. “Always defending the Gaeltacht like an Irish patriot. Makes me happy I studied in England.”

“But you came back to Dublin.”

“Saint Paddy came back to Ireland too, and he unfortunately left a lot of snakes to keep the Garda busy. Not a dull moment.”

“Especially with the Irish Rovers?”

“They’ve been more active thanks to old Boris, so yes, they cause a lot of heartburn. In every Irish port, at the minimum. The only joy there is that customs and coppers from both countries are working together more. Bent’s just the tip of the iceberg. Just yesterday we stopped a drug shipment on the ferry, arresting some plonker Rovers before they could dump the load into the Irish Sea. We manage to win a few now and then.”

“And you and Bent think they’re mixed up in this barrister’s murder?”

“Most likely scenario, at least from my perspective.”

Michael stood and stretched out a hand. “Thanks for the chinwag. Keep me posted on developments. I’m worried about Declan. He might be a poet, but he is my son.”

Chapter Twelve

Maggie assigned Ezra the difficult problem of getting a warrant to access Heathrow’s files. The arguments for that might not sway a judge, though, so she focused on something else: Did Babbitt really text and email Declan O’Hara? If he did, was that photo just a fake? Also, why would he chance that the Met would put two and two together and figure out the photo was fake? In summary, what was his game?

This focus all resulted from Archimedes and Declan’s sleuthing. She first told Archimedes to try to find more information about Babbitt, on the Dark Web or otherwise. She decided to make a visit to the PIs agency.

A gum-chewing Barbarella with silicone breasts was Babbitt’s PA, a woman who was obviously an ornament. She didn’t look at all like Rebecca Gilby. And Laurie Lancaster’s voice sounded like Eliza Doolittle’s before Henry Higgins’s speech lessons. She was harder to understand than Ezra.

“Cor blimey, Luv, the Rabbit never tells me what he’s about. I thought he was on a case.” Maggie showed her the photo. “He’s in trouble. I think that’s Becky too.”

“You know her.”

“Casual-like, Luv. Knew he was shagging her.” She thrust her breasts forward. “Never could figure why. I could give him a real good ride.”

I bet you could, thought Maggie. “Was he working on a case for Mr. Heathrow?”

“Not recently. Those two old lovebirds went somewhere for a holiday. None of my business.”

“Before that?”

“I can’t give out that information. Neither Ron nor Arthur would like that.”

“So you knew Arthur Heathrow well?”

She smiled. “Of course. You might say intimately.” She winked.

“Through cases Babbitt had with that law office?”

“Yes. I guess I can say that. Becky would send work his way that Arthur had. PIs often work with legal firms. Look at Perry Mason’s Paul Drake.”

Read the rest of this entry »

A while ago, as I was reviewing a book for Bookpleasures.com, something struck me. I was noting how the author’s style reminded of Michael Connelly’s early work, in particular the Harry Bosch books. The first, The Black Echo, came out in 1992, and I remember being impressed. And then I thought: Bosch is like my Detective Castilblanco! Not the same, of course, but similar. Harry was a tunnel rat in Vietnam; Castilblanco was a SEAL who had many missions in the Middle East, Afghanistan in particular. They both became detectives in big cities, Bosch in LA, Castilblanco in NYC.

I had to analyze this a bit further to put myself at ease. Had I inadvertently copied Connelly?

At the end, I decided there was no problem. After peeking inside some of those early Bosch novels again, I decided that the only things the Castilblanco books have in common with the Bosch books are those similar backgrounds of the detectives and their grittiness. Moreover, Harry is always local (at least in the Bosch books I read—I maybe read half of them), while Castilblanco’s cases usually start in NYC but often expand to national and international ones. Also, I’ve only reached #7 with Castilblanco, while Connelly is up to #19, last count. Still, eleven Bosch books were out before I published my first novel,  Full Medical (2006), and that was a dystopian sci-fi thriller, not a mystery/thriller. I didn’t write the first Castilblanco book, The Midas Bomb, until after the stock market crash in 2007-2008.

Harry doesn’t have the help of a partner like Castilblanco’s Dao-Ming Chen either. He has to do it all alone most of the time (he does get a little too close to an FBI agent). But both Bosch and Castilblanco are loose cannons sometimes, giving their superiors a tough time. That’s probably true of most innovative and successful cops who are detectives.

Bosch isn’t a hard-boiled detective like Sam Spade and Mike Hammer either; more of those old detectives is found in Castilblanco. My writing owes more to that old school than Connelly’s does—for Bosch, gritty, yes; hard-boiled, no. I call my prose minimalist writing, and it’s prevalent even in my sci-fi tales.

Does any of this matter? Of course not! Crime novels with their mystery, suspense, and thrills all have some similarities, but as long as they’re exciting, intriguing, and entertaining, who cares? I’m addicted to them, in both my reading and writing. And who knows? Maybe my Chen and Castilblanco stories influenced Michael Connelly? Nah, not likely. And I’m sure he doesn’t give a damn that I didn’t read his later Bosch books…for reasons I won’t go into here.

Yet this is a warning to all authors who are avid readers: Check every once and a while to see if your writing too closely mimics some other author’s. A little bit is okay, but even that can kill your own unique voice. I’ve always strived to maintain mine. Modesty aside, it’s not Asimov’s nor Connelly’s, just Steve Moore’s.

After all, you can like both Bosch and Castilblanco. Nothing wrong with that! (Seems like we need a detective whose name starts with A there.)

***

Comments are welcome.

The Chaos Chronicles Collection. This bundle contains three full sci-fi novels. Survivors of the Chaos begins with a dystopian Earth controlled by international mega-corporations that have resorted to private militias to police what remains of the collapse of Earth’s society; it ends with the third of three starships bound for the 82 Eridani system…and the first interstellar stowaway. Sing a Zamba Galactica is an epic history that goes from first contact with good ETs to a war against bad ones that have conquered Earth, but some strange collective intelligences also make trouble in the near-Earth galactic neighborhoods. If the first two novels are considered my Foundation tales, in Come Dance a Cumbia…with Stars in Your Hand! my Mule is the autocratic Human who wants to control all near-Earth space using ESP powers. Available wherever quality ebooks are sold.

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

Peril. Bob Woodward and Robert Costa, authors (2021). Who this book is not about: While the authors are mostly responsible for causing the media hype about the Milley-Pelosi interchange after January 6 (Trump aka Il Duce called Milley a traitor), it’s neither about the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs nor the Speaker of the House. It’s about the transition (or lack thereof) from the administration of the worst president in US history to the administration of the newly elected president, to whom the ex-president has never conceded.

Do you care? Maybe not. “Let’s not dwell on the past,” some people might say. Others still continue to believe the Big Lie. All that’s scary, and so is this book! A narcissistic psychopath with a fuehrer complex took us very close to the precipice that would plunge us into fascism, turning the US into one of those “shithole” countries he’d railed about during one rage. So this book is also about how the “marching morons” (C. M. Kornbluth’s aptly appropriate description of Narcissus le Grand’s rabid followers), who, like lemmings, followed the “f%$#ing moron,” their Pied Piper, right over that cliff and tried to drag more sane Americans along. (Good tidbit in the book about McConnell’s admiration for SecState Tillerson’s quote: Moscow Mitch said to his sycophants that Tillerson was allowed to deny calling Trump a moron because he called the president a “f&^%ing moron”! Of course, McConnell used Trump for four years to further his own fascist agenda. By the way, I was happy to see the word fascist used in the book to describe Trump…rarely, but even by some of Trump’s own “supporters”!)

The book, as chaotic as the Trump administration’s four years, can also be considered that administration’s post mortem, a forensic analysis of a dead criminal who almost destroyed American democracy. Of course, like a zombie, Trump might rise again and prey on democracy again. He was impeached twice (which will be the Big Loser’s most lasting legacy), but he was never convicted. He still has the “marching morons” who continue to follow him, although their numbers are reduced now as many of them die from Covid. (Is the virus eliminating the “stupid gene”? If so, there’s collateral damage, of course.)

This book is scary indeed! It’s Dr. Strangelove and Full Metal Jacket all wrapped up in a real American tragedy! And the fright still grips because me because we might have yet another Trump reality show. That gives me nightmares. It should give any sane person nightmares.

For reasonable and logical people who lived through this four-year debacle caused by a deranged psychopath, there’s not much new here…if they were paying attention. From the day Trump made the announcement he was running after that grand entrance in Trump Tower in NYC, I said that we should never let this deranged person anywhere near the “nuclear football.” Yet we did, and the country suffered greatly, and so did the world, teetering far too close to an apocalypse.

While everyone should read this book (of course, the Big Loser, his minions, and the marching morons will only diss it…if they know how to read—Trump doesn’t!), I do have a few nits to pick. One, the authors are too damn nice to Trump’s evil minions, all fascists like Meadows, Miller, Steve Bannon, Pompeo, Don Jr., Giuliani, etc., etc. Two, the authors did no favors for General Milley by hyping his participation in trying to control Il Duce’s multiring circus; that only made the poor man an easy and continuing target of Trump’s wrath.

As you read this book, you’ll see there’s more than one American hero here, albeit some were reluctant ones like Pence, who saved the country from disaster. May we still have more around if the Big Loser runs again in 2024!

I suppose I should have posted this review at Pub Progressive, my political blog, but it is a book review and an honest one, after all. And this is an important book to read. It contains good journalism, even if the writing is poor at times and a bit sensational. In their hurry to capture market share, Woodward and his publishers are becoming more and more willing to sacrifice quality. It’s a long but an easy read, especially if you paid attention to what’s been going on; and it’s damn scary! So maybe you shouldn’t read it late at night? And maybe it will only be a prelude to the apocalypse?

***

Comments are always welcome!

The Chaos Chronicles Collection. This bundle contains three full sci-fi novels. Survivors of the Chaos begins with a dystopian Earth controlled by international mega-corporations that have resorted to private militias to police what remains of the collapse of Earth’s society; it ends with the third of three starships bound for the 82 Eridani system…and the first interstellar stowaway. Sing a Zamba Galactica is an epic history that goes from first contact with good ETs to a war against bad ones that have conquered Earth, but some strange collective intelligences also make trouble in the near-Earth galactic neighborhoods. If the first two novels are considered my Foundation tales, in Come Dance a Cumbia…with Stars in Your Hand! my Mule is the autocratic Human who wants to control all near-Earth space using ESP powers. Available wherever quality ebooks are sold.

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

[Note from Steve: I’m having way too much fun writing these British-style mysteries to stop now. This one combines the amateur-detective theme of Irish writer Declan O’Hara paired with the professional-detective theme of Scotland Yard’s DS Margaret Bent. Enjoy.]

Poetic Justice

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Seven

Maggie wanted to talk to him at her place of work. That was convenient, because Declan had just had a traditional English breakfast at The Golden Goose as a reward for a mostly sleepless night and to receive some good medicine to work against stress.

He’d visited his father’s workplace often enough, so her office was more or less what he expected, although much cheerier than the room where he’d made his statement with all its bustling activity. The large room with its many desks and computers was busy with plods working on various cases.

She sat at one of those desks because she was only a DS, even though she was SIO for a couple of cases, so she led him back to that interrogation room for some privacy. They sat facing each other.

“Ezra said you seemed nervous, Declan?”

“I was in a hospital because someone tried to kill me. Wouldn’t you be nervous?”

She nodded. “I can have patrol drive by your flat once and a while.”

“That’d be a waste. We have to find out what’s going on. I’m not nervous now. I’m mad as hell.”

She smiled at him. “Actually, that’s good. You’ll be more inclined to help me even more. I notice you said ‘we.’ Is there any chance your encounter with the mad motorcyclist is unrelated to Gilby’s abduction?”

He shook his head in the negative, sending a shock of hair to his forehead that he brushed away. “No, if you’re asking me if I have a secret enemy trying to assassinate me. I do believe that Motorcycle Man might be the same man who kidnapped Gilby. It’s too much a coincidence if not. But I didn’t see his face. He had a helmet on with a dark visor.”

“Opinions expressed in your articles and posts on your website’s blog are strong ones.”

“Mostly not opinions but my interpretations of facts. Here’s what happened, and here’s why it happened, to put a fine point on it.” He gave her a wink. “So you’ve read some?”

“I was curious. I suspect anyone who reads them will react strongly too, pro or con.”

“I’m paid well for the articles. So are many writers. It’s all about content these days. No one I know makes a living writing prose and poetry.”

“I suppose. But your more—shall we say interpretative?—writings have the flaw that no one has a way of determining whether someone who reacts badly to them will want to kill you.”

“You’re not helping to cure my paranoia.”

She shrugged. “In this case, it’s not—”

“—paranoia because it’s true,” he finished.

They laughed together. He liked her laugh. That moment was soon over, and she returned to business.

“Let me try another tact.”

She shoved some stapled papers over to him. It was a list of names.

“What’s this?”

“Something I had Ezra create, a list of Heathrow’s recent clients, criminals he’s got off the hook one time or another, some several times. Do you notice anything unusual?”

He studied the list comprised of five pages of names. The barrister had been a busy man. When he finished, he said, “Seems like there’s a lot of Irish names here. Are you suggesting that Heathrow and his partners are somehow working for an Irish mafia here in London? Does such a thing even exist?”

“Not exactly mafias, but gangs of smugglers. Most of the Irish names and some of the non-Irish, I’m guessing. The border problems you’ve been writing about create many ancillary problems. One is an uptick in smuggling.”

“Here to there, or vice versa?”

“Both. Some people on either side don’t like the rules put in place because of Brexit and try to work their way around them.”

“Just human nature, I suppose. And isn’t smuggling more in the domain of customs, not the Yard?”

“Yes, for the smuggling itself but not for other crimes associated with it.”

“Good Lord, this world is complicated.”

“And leaders like Johnson have made it even more so.”

***

As the discussion continued, Declan realized that Maggie was grasping at straws. Did she only invite me in to look at Ezra’s damn list? He wasn’t keen on the idea that he might be involved somehow in some smuggling activities via Gilby and Babbitt…and the Yard. He wanted his peaceful life back. How can I write when I have to look over my shoulder every time I go out?

Basically she’d forced him to agree to do just that until the Yard made more progress on the case. He thought she might be going down a cul de sac and taking her team with her. Am I supposed to give her company?

He liked the detective. He would help her as much as he could, but he’d much prefer that she consider other possibilities as well. It wasn’t much fun being someone’s target.

After their chinwag ended, she told him to wait. She introduced him to Archimedes and left them alone together.

Declan immediately liked the tall techie who badly needed a haircut. He asked to see the text message on Declan’s mobile. He spent a lot more time than he needed to read it. Trying to parse the meaning? To Declan, that was clear.

“This bloke’s got some tech skills, just like the one sending that message to Gilby. Maggie was hoping I could determine the origin of yours. Maybe I can, but I’ll need some time. Can I borrow your mobile for a while?”

“I use it for work. It’s my laptop away from home. I even read in the Underground with it.”

“Probably more powerful than your laptop even. I can lend you a burner.”

“A what?”

Archimedes smiled. “Smart phone without sim card. No GPS locator. Might be a good idea to improve your security too.”

“What about my contact list?”

“I’ll transfer stuff like that over to the burner. Minus this message, just in case. And I’ll return your mobile in a few days. Deal?”

“Do you think it will help Maggie’s investigation?”

“Maybe. Depends on my luck.”

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

***

When Declan returned to his flat, he discovered a mailer envelope in the hall entrance way that had been shoved under his door. He picked it up with a tissue from his bathroom and took it to his study, almost dropping it because his hand trembled so much. He placed it on his desk.

How do I unseal an envelope without destroying forensics evidence? He wanted to see what was inside. He snapped his fingers. Returning to his bathroom he found the box of rubber gloves he used to clean both his galley kitchen and bathroom. A few years ago, he’d had a rash on both hands, and the doctor recommended the use of rubber gloves. The rash had disappeared; he’d continued to use the rubber gloves so it wouldn’t come back.

Instead of working open the clasp, he used a letter opener to slit the envelope open. Inside was a large photograph. The woman he recognized as Gilby. He assumed the man was Babbitt. They were sitting bound and gagged on back-to-back chairs.

The first question that flooded into his mind was: Why me? The second was related: Why not the police? The final one was: What am I supposed to do with this?

He left envelope and photo on the desk and exited the room to sit on his couch. Fumbling a bit with the unfamiliar mobile Archimedes had provided, he called Maggie. It went to voicemail, so he left a message informing her about the envelope and its contents.

I want this all to end. He wished he’d never seen Gilby’s abduction. Is whoever did it using me as a go-between, a person to funnel information to the Yard. Why not to the SIO herself? He’d heard from his Da that criminals often liked to gloat to the police.

Any romantic aspirations he had harbored for DS Bent were now fading. Won’t any relationship with her bring more of the same? He wondered how his mother had managed with his father. Had he only imagined it to be a loving relationship all those years, a delusion hiding a mother’s fear about her family being affected by the father’s occupation? A content creator and a copper. The more he thought about it, the less he felt good about it.

He was working on his second bottle of Smithwick’s when Ezra and the SOCOs arrived.

Chapter Eight

“I think the first thing you should do is take a picture of the picture with your mobile and send it to Maggie. She’ll find it interesting. I couldn’t manage it with Archimedes’s moby.”

“Will do. I saw you were careful handling it.” Ezra slapped Declan on the back. “Good show, mate. We’ll make a detective out of you yet.”

He went and hovered around the entrance door, kneeling down and sticking a finger under the crack. “Big enough gap here. Somewhere along the line a previous tenant removed a plush carpet to get to the hardwood floors. Always leaves a gap.”

“That would be me. I have some seasonal allergies. Pollen collects in plush carpeting.”

“I hear you. Only problem is that someone could come in under the door with a stiff wire and release the deadbolt. It’s then a simple matter to pick the knob’s lock.”

“Good Lord. Were you a cat burglar?”

“You should see Maggie. Her set of picks is top quality. You’re one of the smart ones. Most people don’t even think ’bout having a deadbolt.”

“I can’t make that claim. I only changed keys when I moved in.”

He laughed and then shrugged. “Not important, mate. With the gap, the scrote didn’t even have to enter.”

“Will that photo help the investigation?”

“We’ll see. At least it tells us Gilby and Babbitt are together and both victims. Maybe we can get something from the background that will give us a clue about where they’re being held.”

“But why send it to me?”

“Who knows? Because you’re such a lovable bloke? Maybe we’ll get one too. Or Gilby’s workplace.”

“Why there?”

“The Yard frowns on paying ransoms. The barristers might spring for that, though, I suppose. Depends on what Gilby and Babbitt know. Or maybe they have some evidence the scrotes would not want us to have? Use your imagination. You’re the writer.”

“Maybe the Met is so big they don’t know where to send it? I just met a woman who used to be in the Yard, an inspector in the Art and Antiques Division. Have you ever heard of that?”

“Can’t say I have. Maybe Maggie has. The bureaucracy is huge. I get your point. You think they’re using you as an intermediary.”

“You’ll need to check, but maybe Heathrow and his lawyer friends aren’t guilty of anything?”

“The scrotes would know about them through Gilby, if only recently. I don’t know what the involvement is, but I’m willing to bet Heathrow and friends are involved in some way. Maggie showed you the list.”

“It was a bit depressing, seeing a bunch of Irish criminals.”

Ezra laughed. “For all we know, the rest were Cockneys. Remember Daddy Doolittle.”

Declan thought a moment and then laughed. The droll constable had a sense of humor.

***

Maggie read through the forensics report. There’d been a bit of dust at the bottom of the envelope that turned out to be scouring powder used to clean sinks and stoves that hadn’t come from Declan’s gloves, which had been out of the box. No fingerprints, no DNA traces.

She asked herself the same question Declan had asked: Why go through the writer? Ezra had told her his theory that they didn’t know where to send the photo to in the Met. She didn’t buy that. And Declan had no connection with Heathrow and his cronies. She saw her whole smuggling theory taking a hard crash landing.

She didn’t buy the ransom theory either, but the idea that somehow those who’d kidnapped Gilby and Babbitt were after incriminating evidence the law firm had was likely. Yet why would Heathrow or anyone in the firm feel pressure with the two kidnapped? Could it all just be a big mistake, the left hand of a criminal operation not knowing what the right hand was doing?

Early days, she said to herself. But the DI wants results! She had to face him in ten minutes. It was time for a cuppa’.

She returned to her desk to find a note from Archimedes. She sighed. She put down her tea, popped a biscuit into her mouth, and then took a sip. She then went to the lift. In the basement, she found the jolly black giant waiting for her.

“Traced Declan’s text message. It came from Kensington. Here’s the address.”

She examined it. It looked familiar.

When she returned to her desk, her tea was cold. She drank it anyway and then pulled the file on Heathrow. He lived in Kensington.

She called the law firm. Arthur Heathrow, Esq., had taken a personal day. She called his home. No answer, no answering machine.

She met Ezra coming in as she was going out. “Just in time. We’ll take a little ride to Kensington. You can tell me about Declan as we go.”

“Just give me time to visit the loo, Guv.”

***

Maggie saw the body on the sitting room floor. She told Ezra to practice his skills at lock-picking this time. Once in the foyer, he handed her gloves and booties.

There wasn’t much blood. She didn’t see the wound until Ezra rolled Heathrow over. A hole in his chest told the sordid tale.

“Blood’s all in his abdominal cavity, I’d wager. I’ll call for a pathologist and SOCOs.”

“Now we have a murder case. The DI will be thrilled, I’m sure. After you call for them, do a quick sweep of the downstairs. I’m off to do the same upstairs.”

Everything was tidy upstairs. One bedroom was in use, probably the barrister’s. A small bookcase mostly contained popular fiction. She noticed one of Declan’s novels, The Case of the Distraught Diva. The subtitle: Inspector Robinson, Book One. Different than Gilby’s, which was more recent. He’d published it six years earlier. The cover was a bit sexy, showing a woman’s bare leg and foot with a high-heeled shoe.

She browsed through it and then put it back and checked the bathroom. Neat and tidy too. Was a cleaning woman here at the house this morning? If so, the SOCOs probably wouldn’t find much.

The other two bedrooms had mattresses with bed sheets and covers folded on top, and chests with empty drawers. The main bathroom, in between those two rooms, looked unused as well. She went downstairs.

“Marks on the rug in the study and dishwasher with clean dishes show a cleaning lady was here,” Ezra said.

“My same conclusion. No biologicals in the study, I presume. He was shot here in the sitting room. He must have known his killer.”

“Because he wasn’t shot through the peephole or in the entrance way?”

“Probably opened the door willingly enough and let his killer in. Say, does he have something in his fist. Careful.”

Ezra had bent to pry the fingers open. He held up a cufflink. “Unusual design, I dare say.” He handed it to her.

“An Irish cross. Probably not his.”

***

Back at the station, Maggie called Declan.

“It’s nice to hear from you, Maggie,” he said, “but I’m sure this isn’t a social call.”

“I’d like to have your father’s phone number.”

“He splits his time between Dublin and Donegal. Let me think. He’d be in Donegal now because a course at the training academy just finished. But I’ll give you both numbers and the home number. Why do you want to call him?”

“I would probably just get a run-around from the Garda if I went through official channels. I need a lesson on Irish crime syndicates.”

“Can’t help you there, but Da probably can. Or knows levers to pull to get you connected with someone who can. Are you looking for someone in a particular place? Irish ports, perhaps?”

“Forget the smuggling. That could just be part of their business model.”

“You seem a bit antsy. What’s happened?”

“Heathrow’s dead. We found him at his home.”

“Um, you plods are gathering all kinds of evidence. How are you going to sort it all? You don’t think my father’s involved, do you?”

“No, of course not. But he’s a valuable source of information I have available through you.”

He gave her the numbers. “You might get Mum, so fair warning: She’s very protective of Da. And her children, for that matter. Thinks he works too hard and that he should retire completely. I tend to back her on that. Man’s over seventy now.”

“Will she put me through if I mention you?”

“If you do, she probably will, thinking you’re my girlfriend. She’s always badgering me about how she wants some grandchildren.”

“Maybe I’ll lead her on a bit. I really need to talk to your father.”

Chapter Nine

The conversation with the old copper Michael O’Hara was brief. He wanted to Skype. They used Zoom instead so Ezra could more easily sit in at his own desk.

“The technological miracles of our age,” Michael O’Hara said after they had everything sorted. “What a boon to policing, right DS Bent?”

“Call me Maggie. DC Ezra Harris is with me, as you can see. Call that old Cockney Ezra. We’re recording, if you don’t mind, and he’s taking notes as well.”

“Good show. I hope my son is okay. I heard his name bandied about before my wife handed the phone over.”

“He’s fine. Just a good friend.” Maggie said nothing about the motorcycle attack. “Down to business.” She held the cufflink close to the computer’s camera lens. “Does this mean anything to you?”

Read the rest of this entry »

The original Star Trek series had better episodes than any others in the Star Trek franchise. They’re dated now, especially if you’re looking for razzle-dazzle special effects. (They had to make do with what they had back then—literally!) Yet many of those original episodes were written by real sci-fi writers, not some young screenwriting novices. (The same can be said about the earlier Twilight Zone, even more so.) But The Next Generation‘s theme song was much more inspiring than the one from the original series’, hands down!

Written by the famous Jerry Goldsmith (the version I liked best was on a Boston Pops CD—”Pops in Space” I think it was called), it gave me goose bumps the first time I heard it. My ten-year-old son (he’s now forty-five) was even more impressed. It just held so much promise. The show delivered, with Jean Luc Picard matching my image of what a starship captain should be. (I had a hard time getting by Counselor Troi and Ensign Crusher, though.) Picard and Worf were my favorite characters.

But hearing that theme motivated me to watch every show. The stories were often disappointing, though, especially when compared to that magnificent theme song. The experience led me to conclude that it takes a whole team to make a successful series or movie. Good writers are needed as well as good music and good actors, writers who can spin good yarns week after week, a more difficult task than writing a movie’s screenplay…or just one novel.

The comparable challenge a fiction writer faces is a series of novels, not one. Like The Next Generation, an author’s series generally reuses many of the same characters over and over again. What changes are the plots and maybe the settings, and maybe the “guest” characters. The challenge arises because the ho-hums can set in. Like readers who read the books in a series, an author can become bored with writing about them.

This is one huge advantage self-publishing has over traditional publishing. For the latter, a publisher can get tired of a series even before readers and writer do. The publisher can cancel the series as a consequence. (This happened to me with the “Esther Brookstone Art Detective” series when the publisher wanted to end it with a trilogy. I knew Esther and Bastiann wanted me to create more adventures for them. I don’t know about readers.) The flip side of the coin occurs when a publisher wants an author to continue a series, even if the author is bored with it and knows subsequent novels will seem boring and formulaic to readers as well. The author often ends up writing little else, as in Sue Grafton’s case.

Self-publishing offers an author a lot of freedom when writing a series. Although my “Esther Brookstone” series is forty percent traditionally published, I self-published the last three books in the series. Sure, I completed the trilogy, even ensuring the third novel had a paper version, but I went beyond that for Esther and Bastiann. They deserved it, and I wasn’t bored with writing about their new adventures together as a married couple. I hope you aren’t either.

I’ll let someone else worry about theme music for the series when and if it becomes a TV series. I can suggest a few possibilities from classical music, but I’ll have to confirm those with Esther! She has a mind of her own.

***

Comments are always welcome.

Oktoberfests. I think my only mention of them is in Death on the Danube, and that only occurred as a reasonable facsimile at the beginning of Esther and Bastiann’s honeymoon river cruise (the beer gets to Bastiann, though!). We actually took the cruise that novel is based on in October through multiple European countries, so the reader can see most of what we saw by riding along with those two lovebirds. We didn’t have a murder on our cruise, of course, and there was no Interpol agent like Bastiann around to take over the investigation if we’d had one! This novel is in the middle of the five-novel “Esther Brookstone Art Detective” series, forming a bridge between the first two more international books and the last two, where the sleuths solve crimes on Esther’s home turf. Available in ebook and print format.

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

The exception is books! But first, a bit of history…

It all started with cable’s “On Demand”-type offerings (most cable companies had and have that), then HBO with premium movies, and now a whole Jurassic menagerie of streaming services and streaming bundles, a business so lucrative that even Disney jumped in and now competes with other streaming T-rexes. Expensive movie subscriptions, anyone?

And those video games! Lawsuits have been lost or won about who owns them and who can sell them, and they’re so popular that there are people now who make a living treating other people addicted to them. Big business creating cottage industries?

Your ordinary family movie matinee afternoon followed by dinner for four, even at McDonald’s, can easily cost parents $100 or more. That’s a hit on the old family budget!

Entertainment is big business in America, and Americans are willing to spend big bucks to get it.

What’s missing here? Books and reading! I still just make do with regular cable, mostly because I like to keep up on the news (CNN and network news) and PBS shows (new ones for the latter seem to have disappeared with Covid, though). But sometimes I look for a movie in the “On Demand” catalog, but I generally back out of there fast!

As Mr. Biden says, here’s the deal: Let’s say an “On Demand” service charges $3 for an old flick that I’ve missed (more chances for that now with Covid), and that movie lasts two hours. For $3, I can download a damn good novel that will take eight hours to read, say. In other words, for the same price, I get four times the entertainment! And that book is usually far better entertainment. Movie scripts nowadays are notoriously bad, often with no plot or interesting characters, just a lot of special effects. It’s incredible that I can buy a well-thought-out novel for $3, a story that’s almost guaranteed to be more entertaining than most movies.

Of course, I have to be selective, but I am for both media choices, and that’s another plus for books: There’s a lot more selection! There are more books because it doesn’t cost $100 million-plus to make a book. And with the book’s blurb and a “peek inside” (most online book retail sites have these features, and you use them also as you browse in a library, where a book is zero cost to you), I can home in and find a very entertaining book. Movie trailers all too often just show the few good parts of a movie, so I’ve learned to distrust them (same for book trailers, of course, especially James Patterson’s).

Conclusion: The best entertainment is found in books; the least expensive entertainment is found in books. Books are better. Period. Go out and spend a lot on other entertainment if you like. I’m sticking with books!

***

Comments are welcome…but see the rules on my “Join the Conversation” web page.

Oktoberfests. I think my only mention of them is in Death on the Danube, and that only occurred as a reasonable facsimile at the beginning of Esther and Bastiann’s honeymoon river cruise (the beer gets to Bastiann, though!). We actually took the cruise that novel is based on in October through multiple European countries, so the reader can see most of what we saw by riding along with those two lovebirds. We didn’t have a murder on our cruise, of course, and there was no Interpol agent like Bastiann around to take over the investigation if we’d had one! This novel is in the middle of the five-novel “Esther Brookstone Art Detective” series, forming a bridge between the first two more international books and the last two, where the sleuths solve crimes on Esther’s home turf. Available in ebook and print format.

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

[Note from Steve: Missing something? For those of you who enjoyed reading my politically-oriented articles about current events in the US and around the world, you’ll now find them at http://pubprogressive.com. Please drop by if you’re interested.]

[Note 2 from Steve: I’m having way too much fun writing these British-style mysteries to stop now. This one combines the amateur-detective theme of Irish writer Declan O’Hara paired with the professional-detective theme of Scotland Yard’s DS Margaret Bent. Enjoy.]

Poetic Justice

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Four

“Sorry I’m late.” DS Bent took her chair across from Declan after shaking his hand and was immediately captivated by the view of London at night. “Are you trying to impress me?”

“Just hoping you will help me celebrate the sale of my article for a nice piece of change and the sale of a few copies of my poetry book, although that’s overwhelmed by the overall success of that gallery event.”

“Congratulations. No saving for a rainy day, eh?”

“If you think I’m a Bohemian, you should have seen the Brazilian painter, Ricardo Silva.”

“I’d heard about him. Never about you.” That hurt a bit, but he made no comment; it was a fact. “What are you drinking?”

“A Southwick’s ale, but please order what you want.” She ordered a G and T. “I’m supposing our meet here isn’t all for pleasure?”

“Pleasure, except for one quick question about my case, that’s all.” She removed an envelope from her large purse, took a photo out, reversed it, and slid it toward him. “That her? The woman you saw kidnapped?”

He nodded. “Any news about that case?”

“Now we’re beyond one question. Let’s get past the hors-d’oeuvres, at least. I’m in the mood for bacon. Any recommendations?”

“Broiled asparagus wrapped in bacon?”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Two invitations by ‘zine editors. They were using up their per diem, I think. I came down from up north to meet them here. That was before face-to-face meet-ups went out of style. of course. Here’s the waitperson.”

They chatted more about life histories and goals until the dinner ended and they waited for coffee and dessert. He then repeated his question. She told him about Gilby and her boyfriend and their disappearances at the same time.

“That’s too much of a coincidence. Seems like someone was after them both. They might be dead.”

“And here I thought I was the one whom too often is called Ms. Doom-and-Gloom. There are no bodies, Declan.”

“Yet. But that’s segue to a good question: Why bother to kidnap them if they were just going to kill them? Perhaps they had information someone badly wanted. Have you contacted Jamaican authorities? The country’s a commonwealth realm, after all. The King could query the governor directly.”

“Writers always have interesting imaginations. Can you imagine King Charlie doing something so plebeian?”

“You know what I mean. Your top cop talks to their top cop. Probably can’t get it done otherwise.”

He could see that she was considering his suggestion. They were interrupted by dessert.

***

Through dessert and coffee, the conversation changed to become more of a first-date chinwag.

“Where do you live, Declan?” Maggie said.

By then she had dropped the more formal DS Bent for the evening, although he couldn’t remember at what point. He’d taken it in stride he hoped, although she still seemed a bit stand-offish.

“Mostly in public libraries or bookshops.”

“I mean your abode, where you sleep.”

He hesitated. “I have a flat.” He rattled off address and telephone number and told her how to get there from The Golden Goose via the Underground. “I have a combination living-dining room with a galley kitchen on the side which leaves me good space for my music system. I use one bedroom for a study and the other for sleeping. That’s all I need.”

“No telly?” He shook his head in the negative. “Do you cook?”

“Sometimes. Why all these questions? Planning a rescue mission because I’m a witness? Will they come after me now?”

“Always a possibility. Beyond that, one, your answers assure me you’re a reliable witness and not just a crazy, reclusive writer lost in his fantasy worlds. Two, I want to see if your set-up is better than nine. I’m nearer my place of work, but that comes with a lack of space, and I’m guessing the rental fee for my studio is on a par with your place.”

“Understood. I’d prefer that you don’t live near me, though. You might want to bounce ideas off me about a case at odd times.” He said that with a smile, trying to head off a bad reaction. Maggie Bent had a short fuse.

The rejoinder still came. “Don’t you really mean I’d crimp your style with your other female friends?”

At least she said other. “I haven’t had much luck in that department. Some people might even think I’m gay. Even intelligent people often pigeonhole other people in ridiculous ways based on stereotypes. Like, Muslims are terrorists, Irish writers are either gay or sots, and so forth.”

“And plods are stupid. I only know of one gay Irish writer.”

He raised an eyebrow. “At least you recognize the importance of being earnest.”

She laughed. “That’s a terrible joke that probably has Oscar Wilde spinning in his grave over in Paris. I should visit Dublin one of these days.”

“The west coast and south are a bit more picturesque…and have better pubs. Just my biased opinion, of course. After all is said and done, though, I like County Donegal best. It appears you’re well read. I doubt they emphasize that when training plods. My da would consider it a great joke.”

“With the graduate entry scheme, one has a shortcut to detective status. I took advantage of that. I was never in patrol.”

“I bet you’d look good in uniform.” She blushed a bit. “Don’t take that as flirtation. My sis looks sharp in her uniform. She hopes to get promoted out of patrol soon. I think Da is very proud of her, maybe more of her than me. He’s never understood my obsession with writing. He likes my articles, though, a lot better than my poetry and prose. Wanted me to work for The Irish Times. I considered it, but here I am.”

“I was the middle child, male and female siblings above and below. My sisters are nuns and my brothers are priests.”

“Your family must be Catholic too. Did your parents want you to be a nun?” Declan thought that would have been impossible—Maggie was too worldly.

“Mum did. But I wanted nothing to do with that. I wanted to help people more directly, out and about in the community, so I guess I could have been happy as a priest, but the Church is sexist as hell and dominated by old misogynist men…like my brothers! I flipped a coin to choose between EMT and copper. EMT won, so I chose copper to give stick to fate.”

“Aha! We’re kindred spirits in that sense. Da always said I’d never make good money as a writer, that a life of poverty would be my fate.”

“Do you make money as a writer? Beyond what’s needed for this repast?”

“Enough to get by, and it’s getting better, but I fear writing articles will soon take all my time. One ‘zine wanted to send me to a war zone to get background for an article. I turned that assignment down. The Irish had enough war during the Troubles.”

“That’s picking up again, thanks to Johnson.”

“Don’t I know it! County Donegal snuggles up against Northern Ireland. Londonderry is too near.”

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