Fascist Tango

Copyright 2019, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Four

At a Buenos Aires Hotel

Juan Carlos watched Jasmine enter the hotel. He then paid the driver and followed her inside.

“I’d like to leave a message for Jasmine Locke who is also staying here,” he told the desk clerk, who then handed him a message pad.

He wrote: “Make it nine-twenty. r/Juan Carlos.”

He watched the clerk stick it into a cubbyhole. He now knew where Jasmine’s room was—number 312.

He went up to his own room on the fifth floor and checked his James Bond-style alarm. He’d read some of those old novels. One of his few surviving hairs plucked and stuck in the door jam and a camera inset in the peephole, low and high tech—no danger. He entered with confidence until he spotted the note that someone had shoved under the door. It read: “Thanks for the tango. r/Jasmine.”

I’ll be damned, he thought. How’d she know I was here? He changed hotels every time he journeyed to the port city from his hideaway in Salta. He decided she or the group had just waited for one of those trips to make it easy for them. But that also meant they probably didn’t know where he lived in Salta, which was a good thing.

He took off the fancy shirt with ruffles he used when milonga-hopping and his undershirt and looked at the old scars. They itched for some reason. Especially around the prosthetic. Is that a premonition of things to come?

He wondered how much of Jasmine was real woman. When they were dancing, all of her seemed real. The group’s techies must have improved both hardware and software if she was only part human. And she’d lied. She could dance. What is her story? He figured something in her past had brought her into the group.

He didn’t have many hours to sleep, and he didn’t sleep well. At breakfast Jasmine Locke looked a lot better than he did when he slid into the booth opposite her, although, with light makeup and lipstick, she’d looked better the night before.

“Coffee’s good,” she said.

“Questionable. Brazil’s next door. I’m partial to Colombian, for obvious reasons. What did you order?”

“The tropical fresh fruit plate. Brazil’s next door.”

He studied the menu. “Southwest scramble with a side of bacon for me. I assume they mean US Southwest. Why not just call it Mexican?”

“There are significant variations—Tex-Mex, Californian, New Mexican, Tijuana, Monterrey.”

“So you’re an expert on gringolandia without living there? Are you going to be contradicting me all day?”

“Just providing information.”

“The information I require is about what I might be getting into.”

She thought a moment. “Did you know Karl Wilson?”

“Ha! We called him the dumb Marx brother—Karl, get it? Besides, he was often an old Groucho, not gaucho, if you know your trivia. Great drinking buddy, old Karl. Miss him, just hearing his name.”

“Old Karl is dead.”

Juan Carlos, who had just scooped up a pat of butter for his biscuit, stopped his knife in midair. “Job-related death?”

“Yes, but don’t ask me for details. You’ll soon know them.”

He put the knife and biscuit down. “Mierda! That’s a turn-off. I’m retired, Jasmine. I’m done with this dangerous assassin and spying crap. I survived, and I want to keep it that way.”

“No desire to revenge his death?”

“More scared about having to face a global fascist movement in order to do that. What about you?”

She shrugged. “I have motives beyond revenging his death, but that’s one of them.”

“I never figured you for a death-wish woman.”

She now frowned. “Shut up and eat your breakfast.”

***

The safe house was in the Argentine capital’s suburbs. Juan Carlos drove Jasmine’s rental car.

“This had better be interesting,” he said. “That big breakfast is making me groggy even with that foul but strong coffee.”

“Just drive. I’m—”

Juan Carlos only had time to swerve a bit before the Mercedes-Benz truck T-boned their car and pushed it onto the sidewalk against the wall of a building, pinning it. Blood streaming down his face, he sniffed a bit. No gasoline spill. He drew his gun and waited.

(more…)

[Note from Steve: This serialized novella is dedicated to the victims of political, ethnic, and religious violence everywhere, and especially to those who have been victims of far-right white supremacist and neo-Nazi movements. We’ve seen this many times recently—in fact, just this last week in Christchurch in New Zealand and not long ago in Pittsburgh in the US.

Here most of the action takes place in the Southern Cone of South America in the near future where right-wing violence and autocratic regimes maintain a death grip on the world—that is fiction.

In the real world of the past, this was the norm in many South American countries like Argentina, where the military junta waged its “Dirty War,” and in Chile, where Pinochet’s regime tried to halt all progressive movements by slaughtering their leaders—both fascist governments came to power with the help of the CIA. While Venezuela’s current problems weren’t caused by the far right, one cannot deny that the Chavez and Maduro regimes might as well have been—the labels we use for autocratic governments are irrelevant. And, of course, Hitler’s “Final Solution” was responsible for the death of millions—an American CEO just recently used the meme “Arbeit Macht Frei”!

To all these victims, I dedicate this story, a terrifying look at what the world might become if this move to the extremes continues. This story pays homage to the grand tradition of all those great dystopian novels that I read as a kid—The Time Machine, Brave New World, Darkness at Noon, 1984, and others. It’s also a nod to William Gibson, creator of sci-fi’s cyberpunk subgenre.

A warning to parents: While there are no explicit sexual or violent scenes—at least no more than we might see in a PG-13 movie at a theater—the topics considered here are not appropriate for small children, even if they are precocious. Please use your parental judgment wisely by reading the novella first.]

Fascist Tango

Copyright 2019, Steven M. Moore

Summary

It is 2037. Jasmine Locke, a cybernetic-human who is a top agent for a centrist vigilante group, is sent to South America. Her assignment: go undercover to trace the tentacles of a new fascist worldwide organization. In Buenos Aires, she meets Juan Carlos Benavides, a retired member of her group whom she recruits to help her. Her mind-melding with the group’s AI network to manage large quantities of data, which is not uncommon at the time, leads to unforeseen consequences.

Chapter One

At a Budapest Warehouse

I’d already scanned the inside of the warehouse with my IR and radar sensors, but I still peeked around our group’s sentry into the dim interior of the warehouse. Force of habit.

The construction was late twentieth or early twenty-first century, so the place wasn’t in good shape, especially after fires in the 2031 riots had left it standing with charred walls. Still functioning, though. Seven years later, the autocratic government was still in firm control.

Our forensics people had just entered after parking their unmarked van behind the warehouse. I could still see what was left of Karl chained to an old steel chair—his blood and body parts were spread around his mangled corpse. I’d seen the chair with my radar, but not Karl with my IR—his body was already cold. Almost lost my lunch with the visual.

I’d seen tortured and dismembered bodies before. Autocrats loved to do that to anyone who went up against them. Hadn’t known the victims in the previous cases. Karl had been one of our best agents, one we hated to lose, especially in this way. We were only a few now, spread thin around the world trying to do what we could to end fascism’s stranglehold on humanity.

I stretched a bit. Was overdue for a tune-up. I’d gone through hell fighting off rejection when I received my prosthetics and new body parts after the semi had crashed into me. Guess I should call the necessary tune-ups only purgatory. The stiffness wasn’t any worse than what I used to have in an Edinburgh winter.

I turned away from the scene and walked a few steps toward the river to avoid the stench of the Danube made especially nauseating by my heightened sense of smell. What the Hungarian right-wing totalitarian government had done to the Danube even before the riots had produced an eternal stench too, but I tolerated all that better than the stench of torture and death. Even the fog made yellow from the old streetlamps as it rolled in from the river seemed refreshing but hesitant to compete against death’s stench.

After my stomach settled a bit with the fresher air, I stuck my head through the door again and transmitted to our chief CSI via her normal earworm-mike combo, “Look for anything that will give us a clue about which fascist group was responsible for this.”

“Probably locals, Jasmine,” said the sentry. “Hard to imagine who else would know about this abandoned warehouse.”

“Locals with international connections,” I said with the CSI still in the link. “Someone told them what Karl’s goals here in Budapest were.” I touched my forehead with my index finger—nearly metal against metal because my head was well protected now. One benefit? My wig never itched! “And we’ve lost all the information Karl gathered.”

He’d been working undercover. We all did from time to time. We had to be highly motivated to put our life on the line like that. Many times in my case. My motivation was simple: fascists had killed my father. I lost him when I was six. Everybody knew I had my personal agenda, but the people in charge of our group couldn’t turn the revenge-seekers away all the time—good agents were hard to come by.

***

Marvin Cox soon joined me at the warehouse. Sans earworm and mic, he liked to pretend he was a big shot. He was an able administrator, but he’d never been in the field. Lost some respect from that, but I wouldn’t want his job.

“Came as soon as I could. Any info on Karl’s killer?”

I used my software to kill all my RF links. “Multiple killers. DNA from at least three different people.” Frowned. “I would have thought that you’d be a bit more maudlin. Karl was a great guy and one of our best agents.”

“Men aren’t as emotional as women.”

Prick, I thought. Whispered it too. Was glad that was off-air. Was also glad Marvin was on our side, though. He could be an asshole, but provided a bit of balance against the smart fascist assholes we were fighting round the globe.

“I won’t even respond to that stupid statement,” I said.

The SOB winked at me. “You just did. Suck it up. This is good experience for you. Someday you might have your turn in the torture chair. We’re not in nursery school playtime, you know.” He was an American, but none of us could live there anymore, so he had acquired a bit of a local accent—English sprinkled with paprika.

“And you know Karl was a human being, not just your slave.”

“Shit, Jasmine, we’re all in this together.”

I didn’t respond to that meaningless but true observation. Of course we were—the endangered few who thought the world’s scourge of fascism should end.

We both talked to the chief CSI agent live when she exited the warehouse.

Our group wasn’t very big. Major cities in all the right-wing countries or ones leaning that way often had small local clandestine offices. Budapest’s had four permanent employees—two CSIs, the agent who served as sentry, and Marvin, the local boss. Other agents would float from city to city, trying to do what needed to be done and sometimes getting killed while doing it. For example, I wasn’t tied to any particular office. Most of us weren’t. Yet Marvin felt he could boss me around. Karl hadn’t tolerated that. I’d miss Karl.

The CSI showed us a business card. Rodrigo Jimenez, Imports & Exports. A hologram of Rodrigo seemed to hang in midair; he was smiling at us. I didn’t like the smile. The address was in Asuncion.

“If he’s not here in Budapest, Mr. Jimenez was a contact for someone in the group here that killed Karl,” said Marvin.

“Or maybe he was someone who was directing the torture from afar,” I said.

Marvin nodded. “I’m sending you to Argentina, Jasmine. I’ll get the OK from Paris HQ.”

“FYI: Asuncion is in Paraguay.”

“FYI: Juan Carlos Benavides is in Argentina. You’ll need his help.”

“Who the hell is Juan Carlos Benavides?”

Chapter Two

In a Buenos Aires Milonga

I entered the dark milonga and spotted Juan Carlos Benavides—not among the audience, mostly couples seated at their tables sipping their drinks, and not on the small dance floor where patrons danced their sexy tangos—but in front of the band. The milongas still existed because the porteños couldn’t live without their music and dances, in spite of the junta’s curfews and other policies that tried to stop people from having fun.

Benavides was belting out the lyrics to “Por Una Cabeza” with good-natured lust. At times he would join the musicians using the bandoneon draped around his neck.

I’d heard the song ages ago in the classic movie Scent of a Woman—tangos are songs that often inspire dancing—and liked it so much that I’d found a purchase link to the old soundtrack and downloaded it, under a false identity, of course. While Juan Carlos was enthusiastic, he was a better bandoneon player than singer.

After scanning the audience, band, and Benavides across the EM spectrum, I found an empty table, ordered a glass of Malbec from Mendoza, and settled in to enjoy the rest of the song. Lengthened by segments featuring the orchestra, everyone could dance who wanted to do so. When both singer and band came to a galumphing stop, everyone applauded, and I raised my glass to salute Juan Carlos. He saw the gesture and approached me when the band took a break.

“Turista gringa,” he said, labeling me but not too loudly.

There were informers and spies in the audience. Thought I’d picked most of them out. Maybe they just wanted to enjoy Buenos Aires nightlife too, but I doubted it. Were they following me?

(more…)

A Long Way from Home

Copyright 2018, Steven M. Moore

Part Three

Kris was on the ship’s bridge monitoring the next jump through the metaverses when Kerouac the AI wanted to have a discussion.

“This mind-wipe policy has been in effect for over a thousand standard years,” it began. “Tell me, Kris, what are its moral justifications?”

Kris smiled. An AI worrying about moral issues in applying punishment to biological beings? That was common in androids; she’d never experienced it with a ship’s AI. “It’s a balancing act. There are no moral justifications for murder. Even an autocratic ruler of a planet that’s in ITUIP can get his planet kicked out if he orders the killing of a political adversary. Generally speaking, Humans did away with capital punishment long ago and opted for a life sentence in prison, or multiple life sentences because of parole procedures, or banishment. A mind-wipe is applied in lieu of execution, but it also is a sentence that’s rarely applied because it destroys most of the personality. It’s only used when it’s considered that its application plus retraining for a psychotic personality can make a productive and contributing member of society.”

“Does that happen?”

“Yes. You might want to consider it a complete software upgrade. The old AIs went through that sometimes.”

“But no longer. That sounds scary.” The moment of silence that followed puzzled Kris. “I think that would destroy my personality too.”

Personality? She’d have to think about that! “In both cases, it’s painless. In biological beings, the retraining is painless too.”

“How can losing your personality be painless?”

“I’m assured it is. And a mind-wipe is only applied in extreme cases, like I said.”

There was a moment of silence. Then: “I’ve analyzed some alternatives for punishing Tarbok,” Kerouac said. “Do you want to hear them?” Kris nodded, eyes still on readouts. “It would be a break with tradition, but let’s assume we will return to ITUIP one day. Can we not put Tarbok in the brig and let his punishment be decided in a planetary court of law? Even on his home planet?”

“The captain can make that decision, I suppose.”

“Would you please inform him of my analysis?”

“Why don’t you tell him?”

“He’s more likely to listen to his XO.”

***

Halbek liked the idea. But problems continued to occur. Nothing as serious as murder, though.

“Being confined in Alcibiades for such a long period is making everyone crazy,” Kris said at the next meeting of section heads.

The captain propped his chin on his black, leathery hands, his ears twitching. Except for the ears, it was a very Human gesture from the Tali. “Any comments on our situation, Kerouac?”

“In city environments and even with a single species, crowded and confined conditions create stress. Many behavioral studies come to that conclusion. Our situation is exacerbated by the mixed crew.”

“We’re almost there,” said Kris. “We only need a temporary solution.”

Halbek raised his head and looked around the table. “I think I have it. Old-fashioned cryosleep.”

(more…)

A Long Way from Home

Copyright 2018, Steven M. Moore

Part Two

“Not a bad little planet,” said Geoff Rivera, the security team’s head.

Kris was studying the screen in the ops tent that showed a view of a vast, grassy plain. “Looks like Kansas,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“Center of the North American continent on Earth. It was a state in the United States of America before the Chaos.”

Geoff shrugged. “You know more history than I do. But why do you bother?”

“Because I can trace my roots all the way back to there. Topeka, Kansas, to be precise. And to the first starship that colonized New Haven in the 82 Eridani system. Two of my ancestors were scientists, professors from Kansas State University who migrated to the East Coast, or they probably wouldn’t have survived the Chaos.”

“Interesting. That’s a few centuries ago.”

“A few millennia, you mean. Kerouac could help you discover your ancestry if you asked for it.”

“I don’t like chatting with Kerouac. He’s a know-it-all.”

Kris laughed. “That’s a fair description—and accurate. In his databanks one can find most of Human knowledge. He even needs time to dig through it.”

“OK, so this is like Kansas. So what?”

Kris had piloted the shuttle down to the surface. She had picked the landing spot because, unlike some other parts of the planet’s land mass, it was flat. “We’ll need to break out the tricopters for surveillance. We need to find fresh water and biomass for our hydroponics. That’s the first order of business.”

Geoff nodded. “Just like a regular planetary survey.”

“Only this one is key for our future survival.”

***

There were a few crewmembers who wanted to stay on the planet. Captain Halbek paid no attention to them. He needed the full crew. Besides, the majority wanted to make the attempt to go home.

Kris admitted that the minority had a point. When they tried to cross the gap, there would be no more stars with friendly planets. But she also had to admit she wanted to be on the first ship that made the crossing. Once there was one, others would follow.

Of course, there were many unexplored regions in the Milky Way. The Interstellar Trade Union of Independent Planets, or ITUIP, was a loose union of planetary systems, a small number in near-Earth space. Citizens from ITUIP had spread beyond its frontiers to colonize new worlds; exploratory ships like Alcibiades added to the increasing list of planets available for colonization (there were plenty of “illegal colonies” too whose colonists had used that data) and sometimes ran across new civilizations, some friendly, others hostile. But Kris would rather return to the home galaxy and all its unexplored regions than stay in a completely strange place so far from ITUIP that the name would soon be forgotten.

Jose Vargas, their resident astrobiologist, also pointed out that they hardly had viable gene pools in the species aboard Alcibiades; future generations would be doomed. Kerouac calculated how long that would take. The results depended on a species’ natural longevity, but corrected for that, they weren’t encouraging.

After three months on the planet that had no name besides its number as the only E-type planet in the Cloud that was included in Kerouac’s catalog, the starship left orbit. Three jumps took it to the rim of the Cloud where they waited for the AI to finish its calculations.

***

“I will program seven jumps,” said Kerouac. “After each one, we need to spend some time in normal space so I can recalculate.”

The small group of section heads in the ready room studied the path on the screen that summarized their predicament.

“I don’t suppose you have an estimate for the subjective time it will take,” said the captain.

(more…)

A Long Way from Home

Copyright 2018, Steven M. Moore

Part One

Kris knew something was wrong when the starship Alcibiades reentered ordinary space. Kerouac took longer than normal to tell her where they were. Usually the AI’s announcement was almost instantaneous and a formality because the starship was where it was supposed to be. The AI calculated and monitored the quantum histories through the multiverses followed by the stardrive discovered centuries earlier.

This time Kris held her breath during the delay. She broke out in a cold sweat. Starships still disappeared, never to be heard from again. On the very first test of the stardrive, the mixed crew of Humans and Rangers and the test ship became a topological nightmare.

But I’m still alive, she thought. She brought up the starfield on her screen. But where are we?

As if it had read her mind, Kerouac spoke. “I’m having trouble determining our exact position, Kris. Preliminary estimates indicate we’re in the Large Magellanic Cloud near the east end of the bar closest to the home galaxy.”

Kris gasped. “That can’t be!”

“Calculations continue as I try to make my estimates more precise.”

Kris now cursed. She’d have to wake the captain.

***

“I’m trying hard to convince myself my XO and AI haven’t become simultaneously insane,” said Halbek, the Tali who captained the starship Alcibiades. “I don’t recognize anything on that screen. Are you certain, Kerouac?”

“It’s a matter of perspective,” said the AI. “We never see the Cloud from within.” He swung the view past the end of the central bar and beyond, focusing on the large galaxy that filled most of the screen with its telescopic image. “We’re looking across more than 50 kiloparsecs or 163 thousand light-years to the Milky Way Galaxy. The bar in the Cloud is slightly distorted so that both ends are closer to home than the middle, so we’re not that bad off.”

“Not that bad off?” the captain said. “Is that black humor on your part, you chaotic bunch of quantum circuitry?”

“Insults aren’t advisable in this situation,” said the AI. “And there’s nothing chaotic about my circuity. I calculate that your next question will be something like ‘How can this happen?’ with a 63% probability. Here’s my answer to that question: paths in string space between multiverses are chaotic. No matter how precise my calculations are, there’s a small chance for a disastrous targeting error. That’s chaos theory at work on the quantum level, everyone, and it applies to old-fashioned Newtonian mechanics as well. In the case of directing a stardrive to go where we want it to go, which, I will remind you, biological beings are incapable of doing, the complications can lead to much more chaos. To put a fine point on it, I’m surprised it hasn’t occurred before, losing starships within the Local Group.”

“It probably has,” said Kris. “Ships infrequently go missing.  Maybe all the way to Andromeda?”

“Correction then: there’s no record of it happening before because there’s no one who has returned to create the record.”

“Will that be our fate?”

“Possibly. The Cloud isn’t a bad place to be. There are probably lots of star systems around with E-type planets, just like the home galaxy. When the Cloud was discovered by the Persian astronomer Abd al-Rahman al-Sufi Shirazi, he rather admired it, according to my historical records. Amerigo Vespucci rather enjoyed viewing it too. He was a member of a family who were patrons of Renaissance painters, and I believe two continents on Earth were named after him for his map-making abilities. As for the contents of the Cloud, the stars—”

“Cut the history lesson,” said Halbek. “Can we return home?”

“Unknown,” said the AI. “Reaching the Cloud’s edge might not be a problem. Crossing that 50 kiloparsec gap to our home galaxy is probably impossible, but if anyone can find a way to do it, I can. Parallel calculations are going on right now.”

“We might want to do what Kerouac has suggested,” Kris told Halbek. “At least, find a star system with an E-type planet where we can replenish our supplies. Whatever solution Kerouac comes up with will certainly take several jumps back into normal space to adjust our aim for the Milky Way’s edge.”

“Which we could hardly make out right now,” the captain said with a growl, “if it weren’t for the telescopes.”

***

Comments are welcome.

Want to learn more about ITUIP and the Humans first star colonies? The epic Chaos Chronicles Trilogy begins in the dystopia caused by the Chaos and ends far into the future, which is the past for this story. That’s three novels in one ebook available on Amazon and Smashwords and all the latter’s affiliated retailers (iBooks, B&N, Kobo, etc). Hours of sci-fi entertainment!

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

You Know I’m Watching

A “Detectives Chen and Castilblanco” Homicide Case

Copyright 2018, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Six

Was at my desk reviewing the CSU’s report. Also thinking about old Joe’s denial of being Sharon’s stalker. Why had he admitted to shooting her but not to the stalking? Took out the sheaf of papers from the evidence box again. Studied them. There were explicit details about what would happen to Sharon. No mention of a rifle attack, though.

The CSU hadn’t found one ‘zine in Joe’s apartment. Some CDs and a few library books. The guy didn’t even have a TV. Books were all non-fiction. European histories, mostly. Could understand that. I loved history.

“There’s another perp,” I said to Chen.

She nodded. “Eric and I were discussing the case. We thought of that too. The two MOs don’t match. Joe’s actions were reactive—a knee-jerk reaction to Sharon’s ultimatum. The stalker acted over a period of time.”

“Whoever it was had nothing to do with the shooting. An infatuation. Let’s go back over the list of co-workers.”

It took us several hours, but we soon homed in on some testimonies where co-workers stated that they admired Sharon and her boss because they often worked late hours. Some others did too, but not as a habit.

“Think Marvin Dunn became infatuated with Sharon Hill?” I said to Chen.

“A possibility. Let’s assume it’s true. How do we prove it?”

“Search warrant for Dunn’s work desk and his apartment,” I said.

“That’s going to be difficult. Captain and DA already think we solved the case.”

“So you’re going to have to convince them Joe isn’t the stalker.”

Reasonable suggestion because the captain thought I was a little too creative sometimes, and he thought Chen and her husband were the cat’s meow. The DA didn’t much care for me for many reasons, and sometimes she and the captain commiserated.

The judge took some convincing too.

***

Chen and a few uniforms raided Dunn’s apartment. I took a few uniforms to raid the workplace. Both teams had two CSIs with them.

Marvin Dunn just looked at the search warrant and shrugged, made a gesture toward his office, and said, “Be my guest. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Detective.”

(more…)

You Know I’m Watching

A “Detectives Chen and Castilblanco” Homicide Case

Copyright 2018, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Five

Old Joe slammed the door in our face when he saw our creds through the partially opened door. I kicked the door down.

“Fire escape!” I said over my shoulder to Chen. She took off down the stairs. I ran to the open window. Old fellow was moving fast down the fire escape’s iron stairs. Saw me, whipped out a gun, and fired. I’d already ducked back into the apartment. Looked back out when there were no more shots.

He dropped the four feet to the alley’s pavement and turned to make his escape, only to receive the knockout blows from Chen. One, two, and down.

Chen picked up the gun. I called for backup.

CSIs found the rifle tucked behind some dining table inserts in Joe’s hall closet. Too bad we didn’t have the bullet that killed Sharon Hill.

Case closed? Had a funny feeling as we headed back to the precinct to interrogate old Joe.

***

Had to wait while Joe consulted with his lawyer, a public defender we’d provided. When we finally interviewed Joe, it didn’t take long.

“I want a plea deal,” Joe said.

Looked at the lawyer. He nodded. “Cut him some slack, and he’ll confess.”

“Depends on the DA’s office,” said Chen. “He’ll still die in jail.”

Joe hung his head. “I wish New York state had the death penalty. I killed a lovely woman.”

I nodded. “Why?”

“She found a discrepancy. I was hiding some profits.” He looked at his lawyer and smiled, and then turned back to me. “Not much, mind you, but enough to make her nervous. Wanted to report me. Do you know how hard it is to make a living in this city, Detective?”

“You did well enough to have three employees, counting Sharon.”

“Rent’s high, I pay city, state, and federal taxes, and my VA benefits are no great shakes. I often wished I’d died in ‘Nam. Many buddies did.”

Nodded again. “Terrible war. So you killed Sharon to keep her from reporting you?”

“She said she could lose her license. I said no one needed to know.” He hung his head.

“What about your stalking her?” said Chen.

Joe looked up at her. “Stalking her? I never did that.”

Couldn’t get him to admit to the stalking.

“We’ll see what we can do with the DA,” said Chen to finish the session.

(This novella ends tomorrow.)

***

Comments are always appreciated.

The Collector. #5 in the “Detectives Chen and Castilblaco Series,” the crime-solving duo is assigned a case concerning the murder of a SoHo art dealer. Does the case have a connection with artwork stolen from the Gardner Museum in Boston? Mr. C. learns a bit about art and that stolen artwork can be used to finance other activities, in this case human trafficking and illegal porn. As the case evolves, it becomes more complicated. Who has the paintings, if anyone? And where are they? Scotland Yard Inspector Esther Brookstone, of the Art and Antiques Division and protagonist in Rembrandt’s Angel, makes her first appearance in this novel. This ebook is on sale now at Smashwords for $0.99, but only for a week.

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

You Know I’m Watching

A “Detectives Chen and Castilblanco” Homicide Case

Copyright 2018, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Four

Ralph didn’t make it. My knee-jerk reaction was that remorse was the cause for the OD. Chen returned from the hospital to join me again in yet another wait for the CSU to finish up at his apartment, their work more complicated now because it was a two-room place with two guys in each bedroom. They found a lot of young-guy stuff, but Ralph had been hooked for a while. Maybe even in the Academy? Thought of all the young lives ruined by OD-ing on prescription painkillers. Still a national epidemic, with unscrupulous doctors and pharmaceutical suppliers getting filthy rich. The latter’s “mea culpa and we’ll do better” full-page ads were still regular features in the Times, meaning that they were still part of the problem!

We found no guns. My knee-jerk reaction had been wrong. Not the first time.

Leaned against the wall and checked out Kerri and Joe on my phone. Kerri was a real grandmother who was trying to complement her Social Security check with work at the coffee bar. Joe had an interesting past. He’d fought in ‘Nam. Sort of matched his age. Showed his record to Chen.

“You should have checked him before,” she said. “He’d have experience with firearms.”
“A medic? Come on. Their jobs were to try to make the pain go away as our boys died over there. Battlefield hospitals weren’t great back then, and, out in the rice paddies, there weren’t any at all, just the medics. I had several uncles who were there. Bad gig.”

“Not to mention the PTSD if they returned,” said Chen.

“They didn’t call it that back then. Don’t think they even had a name for it. Anyway, I don’t think an ex-medic can be our sniper. Not a lot of firearm experience there.”

“Precisely.” I looked at her, eyebrows raised. “The sniper went for a head shot and missed.”

Nodded. Saw her point. “Could explain why ye wee coffee bar was closed. Let’s try to find old Joseph.”

***

We found Kerri first. She was pacing in front of the coffee bar. We flashed our badges.

“Thank you for coming so fast. The shop was closed when I arrived. Something must have happened to Joe. He’s always here.”

Winked at Chen. NYPD was getting a good rep here for its immediate response to calls. “I suppose you called,” I said. She nodded. “We’re here about old Joe, but not in response to your call.”

She looked confused. “So something has happened to him?”

I went through the recent events involving old Joe and Ralph.

“Sorry ‘bout Ralph. Didn’t know he had problems. One of my grandsons had a sports injury and got hooked. We worry ‘bout him. Can’t afford rehab, but he’s now in a free help group.”

“So no idea where your boss is?” said Chen, getting us back on track.

“Maybe home sick? But you said he was just here.”

“Tell us about Sharon Hill,” I said. “She was a frequent client, I take it.”

Kerri thought a moment. “Yes, nice woman. She did the books for Joe under the table.”

Looked at Chen and then back at Kerri. “You mean his taxes?”

“Joe’s not very together. Hardly kept the personal separated from the business. He’d hand her shoe boxes full of papers, and she’d make sense out of it all.”

“Did she charge him?” said Chen.

Kerri glared at Chen. “What don’t you understand ‘bout under the table? Sharon and Joe were friends. At least, as friendly as two misfits could be. Lotta misfits in this city, ma’am. I came close to bein’ homeless a few times myself.”

Nodded. “Where does Joe live?”

She told us, and we headed there.

(To be continued…)

***

Comments are always welcome.

Aristocrats and Assassins. #4 in the “Detectives Chen and Castilblaco Series,” this mystery/thriller novel initially finds Castilblanco on vacation in Europe with his wife and Chen in China trying to track down a scheme to finance terrorism activities—one terrorist in particular. When European aristocrats start being kidnapped, the two detectives join forces again. The kidnappers don’t want ransoms, though. What do they want? This most international story in the series takes readers on a thrilling tour of Europe as the detectives uncover a nefarious plan to wreak revenge against those who fight terrorism.  (Interpol Agent Bastiann van Coevorden, protagonist in Rembrandt’s Angel, makes his first appearance here.) This ebook is on sale now at Smashwords for $0.99, but only for a week.

Note: There won’t be any posts on December 24, 25, and 26. Happy holidays!

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

Holiday Dinner at the Castilblancos

Copyright 2018, Steven M. Moore

I looked at the guest list for our holiday dinner one more time. Some habitual guests, other new ones. Dao-Ming, her husband Eric, and their little one would be present—two chairs at the main table plus Pedrito’s old high chair brought up from our basement storage. Larry McAdams and his wife, both Muslims, would drive up from New Brunswick and be there. Two additional chairs. Larry and I had become close on a case. Ernst Silverstone and his wife, both Jews, would leave their neighborhood deli long enough to join us. They had a little boy, Joachim, who was Pedrito’s age—those two were close friends, and my wife Pam and I like the couple. Two chairs at the main table, another one for the kiddie table. Full house, counting  my wife and our two kids, Ceci and Pedrito.

We’d put the three bigger kids at a card table. Chen’s kid would be in the high chair or snoozing in his car seat. That meant eight around the dining table. It also meant no ham because of the Jews and Muslims. No problema. I can have ham any time during the year. (My Buddhist guru says I should become a vegetarian. No chance.)

Larry and Ernst, who were both excellent cooks, would take over preparation of the side dishes, mostly organizing them because people were contributing, while Pam and Chen would be watching the bird. Had just had turkey at Thanksgiving a month ago, but that had been with Teresa and her family and others from the Castilblanco clan—Pam’s turkey was always a bit different with her secret butter and spices rub.

I regretted not having Ashley Scott on the guest list; she was in Chicago. I’d intended to pair her up with my Buddhist guru from Brooklyn, but he was somewhere upstate meditating. Thought of a lotus position on a cold stone floor and shivered.

My job was to keep the law enforcement types from discussing cases and Pam from talking about TV news and its increasingly acerbic battle with certain politicos who wanted to curtail freedom of speech and freedom of the press, although all who would be present, even Chen, supported those two freedoms. Didn’t want to get into the increase in hate crimes or the legalization of marijuana either. Maybe city politics represented a safer topic—fixing the subways and getting those new rail tunnels finished under the Hudson, for example. And how to raise kids in the Big Apple.

Was sitting at the counter that divided our living room from our galley kitchen. Kids were running and jumping around like wild gazelles on uppers. Was tempted to spike my morning coffee to calm my frazzled nerves.

I was in my PJs. Pam was in the shower. She’d already put the bird in the oven. Could hear her singing the “Habanera” from Carmen. Maybe happy to have a bit of she-time away from the kids?

In spite of the din, heard the knock on the door. Went to it but didn’t look through the peephole. Ever since the case of the woman murdered by a shot through the peephole was in the news, I had everyone in the family be careful with that. Came natural for me when I was undercover, of course.

“Who is it?” Put my ear against the door.

“Delivery. I need a signature.”

“Yeah, right. Step back against the corridor wall and show me the package.”

Heard his shuffle. Now I looked through the peephole. Plain brown package. Scruffy delivery man needing a shave and uniform.

“It’s for Detective Rolando Castilblanco.”

“Pass what you need signed under the door.”

You’re thinking I’m paranoid. Three reasons for it: The so-called delivery man had called me Detective; he had also used my full name, Rolando, reading it off the label—not even my relatives used that; both set off alarms. And it was seven a.m. on the day before Christmas eve—who makes deliveries at that hour? Why does anyone even know we’re home?

Looked at the shipping label. Yep. Detective Rolando Castilblanco. Signed and shoved it back under. “Leave the package in front of the door and go.”

Put my ear against the door again. Heard his steps on the staircase. Opened the door and retrieved the package. Something loose inside. Maybe sound of metal on glass?

Ran to the window, flung it open, and tossed the package onto the sidewalk. It broke open and revealed the broken bottle that had been inside and a chrome jigger. Amber liquid started puddling.

My smart phone buzzed just then. Text message from the ex-National Security czar who’d been my captain when I was in the Navy: Happy holidays! For the many times on the carrier when we commiserated. And since.

I’d sent an invitation to him. He couldn’t make it. Guess he’d sent me whiskey instead as an apology. Probably expensive whiskey! Well aged and expensive Irish whiskey.

Pam came out of the bathroom, toweling her shampooed tresses. “Any reason why the window’s open?”

“Just thought it was getting a little hot in here. From the turkey, you know.”

“You’d better close it, or the turkey will be the only one not getting pneumonia.”

Looked out the window before I closed it. A street mongrel was lapping up the whiskey. Maybe he had some Irish terrier in him. Sighed.

***

Comments are welcome!

Have you missed the sales? Each week a “Detectives Chen and Castilblanco” is on sale at Smashwords for $0.99. Right now it’s Teeter Totter between Lust and Murder‘s turn. Starting this Friday, it’s Aristocrats and Assassins. Happy holidays from Chen, Castilblanco, and yours truly.

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

You Know I’m Watching

A “Detectives Chen and Castilblanco” Homicide Case

Copyright 2018, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Three

I had some luck at the little coffee shack near Sharon Hill’s workplace. Old guy there named Joseph had a drooping gray mustache and thick eyebrows—maybe the owner?—and he knew the vic as a frequent customer.

“Came in on her way to work most days,” he said. “I’m not always here. Kerri, Ralph, and I rotate shifts, but two of us try to overlap in the morning and at lunch time.”

Kerri’s pic showed me she was a happy, gray-haired woman who needed some dental work. Ralph was much younger than Kerri and Joe—maybe thirty—so I used my special NYPD apps to see if we had info on him. Not ex-military, but ex-cop—better said, an Academy washout who never graduated to patrol duty. Not a bad thing in itself. A lot of wannabe cops don’t make it for many reasons. His reason sent off a mental alarm: he’d harassed a female cadet.

Called Chen.

***

Met my partner at the intersection closest to the coffee house about twenty minutes later. I’d spent the interim time window shopping for a Mother’s Day gift for Pam from the kids and me. No luck there, but I’m a terrible shopper. Seemed like we should graduate beyond the usual breakfast in bed for Mom with lots of hugs, though.

Showed Chen Ralph’s record.

“There’s a lot between harassment and murder,” she said, handing my smart phone back to me. “But you like Ralph for the crime?”

“Knows guns.”

“What about the other two employees?”

“Joe’s the grandfatherly type. Kerri’s the grandmotherly type. Not bright blips on my radar screen right now.”

“Let’s see if we can talk to Ralph.”

By the time we reached the coffee bar, there was a closed sign. “That’s weird. I just chatted with Joe.” Knocked and then rattled the door knob. Peered inside. “Maybe he had to go to the bank. We need another source for Ralph’s address.”

Chen whipped out her own phone. “Last address is in the Village. Probably has roommates. He couldn’t afford the rent otherwise.”

We met the manager of the building outside; he was trying to remove some graffiti that decorated the entrance to the building. “That was fast,” he said.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“I just called the police about this. You’ve got to catch these punks. They’re driving me nuts.”

“We’re not here for that,” said Chen, showing her creds. I showed mine too. “We want to talk to one of your tenants. Ralph Ericson.”

“Haven’t seen him today. Maybe he’s still sleeping. Try ringing at his apartment.” The manager opened the door for us. “What’s the little weasel done now?”

“We just need to talk to him,” I said. “Thanks. What’s his number?”

“3C. Shares it with three other jerks. I just don’t care anymore, and I know the owner don’t either. Just wants his huge rent payment every month. Can’t have decent families living here anymore, he wants so much.”

Nodded, thanked him again, and then I followed Chen up the stairs. They creaked all the way. There was an elevator sporting a sign that said “In Repair.” There was a bit of garbage piled up against its door. Figured it hadn’t been used in a while. Reminded me of that sitcom in some apartment building near Cal Tech. Who could imagine that physicists were so much fun?

Chen knocked on the door to 3C. We heard a groan. “I’ll get the manager to let us in,” said Chen, turning toward the stairs.

Held up my hand like a traffic cop. “Just cause.” Kicked the door open on the second try.

Ralph Ericson was in bad shape. Saw the bottle of oxycodone with most of its contents spilled out over the cot and floor. Didn’t have my kit with its Naloxone dose; neither did Chen. Called for an ambulance.

(To be continued….)

***

Comments are always welcome.

Teeter-Totter between Lust and Murder. #3 in the “Detectives Chen and Castilblanco Series,” this mystery/thriller novel starts with Chen accused of a senator’s murder. She was romantically involved with the victim, so her partner knows she couldn’t have committed the crime and goes about proving her innocence. But once again the case expands to one with national repercussions when the detectives find its connection with the illegal arms trade.  Who are the players? And what are their intentions? Answering these questions leads readers to heart-pounding roller coaster ride with a lot of twists and turns in a story that is as current today as when it was written. Available in ebook format on Amazon and Smashwords and all the latter’s associated retailers (Apple iBooks, B&N, Kobo, etc). This ebook is on sale now at Smashwords for $0.99, but only for a week.

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