Chapter I

It was the custom of Colonel Sir Joshua Williams to invite his veteran officers to his house each Season to commemorate the Battle of San Stefano. After dinner, the closing ceremony was invariable: First, the ladies rose, the young in their pale blues and pinks and the more matronly in their deeper reds and purples. They smiled and departed, leaving the table surrounded by men in their scarlet coats, adorned with medals glittering by the light of dozens of beeswax candles in their silver holders. The liveried footmen filled the port glasses and left as well, closing the doors behind them.

One former company captain looked around, taking note that he was the youngest battle veteran there—the toast would fall to him. Others had moved on or died. He had himself missed last year's dinner, spending it on the Afghan border, dressed like a Saracen and getting his skin burned black while trying to uncover the secrets of that land's sullen and violent inhabitants. Even the task he had to complete after leaving tonight, difficult as it seemed, was nothing compared with that.

The colonel caught his eye, and so the captain stood. Every man stopped talking as the captain raised his glass, and then they stood at attention. He remembered the words easily, and in a strong voice he said, "Did our battle line ever break?"

"No!" shouted the company.

"Why did it not break?"

"We are the hard men," they replied in unison.

"Gentlemen, to our departed brothers of the First Northumberland Foot," called the captain. They drained their glasses and slammed them down, then burst into applause. The dinner was over.

The captain—indeed, he suspected, the other officers as well—was reflecting on how this dinner came about in a year of peace. The English and their allies had defeated Napoleon for the final time at Waterloo two years past now in 1815 and life was moving on—the best people were all in London this time of year, with no war to talk about, just fashions and parties and theater and how good it was to be able to import from France the best claret again.

They rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, and the captain sought out Lady Williams, the colonel's wife.

"My Lady, thank you for your invitation."

"It is I who should thank you, captain. These dinners mean so much to the colonel as he ages, having all his officers around."

"And he means so much to us, Lady Williams, the pleasure and honor are ours. I am only glad I am back in London so I can attend."

"Yes, he mentioned you found a position in the Home Office?" She showed as much surprise and curiosity as a lady of her breeding dared reveal. The captain knew the look—how did a man of his obscure background land what appeared to be a distinguished government position? Despite its simple name, the Home Office had become, since its founding some 25 years before, one of the most powerful and overarching government ministries, with responsibility for security and safety within the British Isles. The Home Secretary was one of the most influential men in England. How Winter had advanced his career in that august body was beyond reckoning.

"Yes, my lady. The work is interesting, but at times onerous, I'm afraid. Indeed, my masters call me even now."

"At this hour, captain? How tedious for you. But again, I am pleased you could come. Give my warmest regards to the Earl and Countess."

The captain said goodbye to his colonel and a few other officers, and the butler saw him out. He walked to the nearest stand and engaged a hackney cab to Bow Street Court. A few heads turned as he entered the building, but no one accosted him. A clerk gave him the barest nod but said nothing as he entered a room.

A few minutes later, the captain came out. He was no longer in his regimentals, but in rather shabby outfit, almost rural, with a slouch hat. Down the hall, he entered another room, where a squad of Bow Street Runners awaited—constables, employed by the local court at Bow Street, to keep order and seize felons. Winter suppressed a grimace. They were poorly trained and poorly paid, but it was pretty much all London had for law enforcement. Many still thought the idea of a formal professional constabulary too much government interference—too un-English. So, the Runners would have to do. At least they were willing and obedient.

"We have already gone over where you should be standing," said the captain. "You know how important it is you aren't seen." There was more than instruction in his voice--there was menace.

"Yes, sir," said the most senior constable present.

"Then take your places. I'll be along shortly."

Moving quickly, he left the building and walked along dark streets that became progressively dirtier and more dangerous. He saw men hiding in the shadows, those who preyed on the weak and unaware, but nothing happened to him.

Eventually he came to a building that was well-lit, at least by the neighborhood standards. It was certainly the noisiest venue in the street. The cracked and faded sign marked it as The Three Bells.

The Captain entered—a few were eating off dirty plates, and almost everyone was drinking beer, or something stronger. Slatternly women laughed and tried to slip away from the half-drunk men who loudly pursued them. Some allowed themselves to be caught, and there was more laughter and then a talk of money. The whole room smelled of smoke and grease, and the floor was sticky from weeks of spilled ale.

Few paid attention to the captain, but a fat man walked up to him surprisingly quickly for someone of his bulk.

"Oh captain, I am so pleased, do you think—"

"Shut up. Where's Sally? She was suitable last night, and she'll be suitable tonight."

"Sally—oh there she is." He pointed to a tallish girl wearing more makeup than an actress. A large man in worker's clothes, probably a stevedore, thought the captain, had grabbed her and placed her on his lap. She didn't seem to mind.

The captain strode over, grabbed the woman by her wrist, and pulled her off the man's lap.

"Come, my girl, we have an appointment as you well know."

She yelped with surprise, then gave a shrug and followed. The large man stood up.

"See here—I saw her first," he said. His accent wasn't London, which explained everything.

"Good for you," said the Captain, and pulled the girl across the room. The big man started to follow, but two of his friends grabbed him.

"Now Jake, no need to cause trouble," said the first, who was clearly local.

"Cause trouble? I'll flatten him—"

"No, you won't. You don't know, you're new here. For God's sake, that's the Captain, a soldier, they say he was, and you don't want to start something with him—I've seen what happens to those who do—"

"That's right," chimed in the other friend, also a Londoner. "Remember Big Nick—used to be here, no one stood up to him, but he challenged the Captain…" he shuddered.

"And what happened?" asked a skeptical Jake. Both men look their heads.

"We never saw him again. He wasn't arrested. They didn't find his body—he was just…gone. So just stop thinking about it. There are plenty of other girls."

But Jake still felt he had to make a show of standing up for himself.

"So, you're telling me it would be a mistake to call him out?"

"Your last mistake," said the first man. Then very softly, as if he was afraid of his words, he said, "He's called Winter. If you're thinking of staying in this part of London, you would do well to remember that name."

#

Captain Winter—indeed, that was his family name—dragged the girl along to the same place as the night previous, with a hope of better hunting. He told her to ply her trade in this alley and then set himself up again behind some empty crates that had once held vegetables, brought to London from the farmlands. Winter was a country boy and knew the smells. Memories of his childhood came back, which kept him from getting bored. He had learned to keep himself occupied while waiting indefinitely for something to happen. Few realized how much time in the army was spent just waiting. In the army, patience was usually rewarded with a battle, and tonight, he hoped, it would be rewarded with the capture of a killer.

Although the evening had been spent remembering battles past, he put those out of his mind and thought about grain at harvest time on the estate, the bacon being smoked, the farm workers shearing the sheep and the earthy smell of the fine horses—especially the joy of riding them through the earl's lands, with Charlotte, chattering and giggling. Half his mind focused on the scene in front of him, while the other half wandered back to a past Twelfth Night: The coach had been stopped 10 miles from Rockland Court by a surprising snow, so he had borrowed a big white horse from the coaching inn and set out against all advice.

It was hardly an elegant mount, more suited for pulling a plow than for carrying an officer, but it was strong, and Winter had urged it through the drifts. Charlotte had seen him from her bedroom window high up, and as he approached the manor house she had raced down and out the door, wrapped in her rabbit fur cloak.

"You made it! I never thought you would!"

"I'm a gentleman—and a gentleman always keeps his word." Once he was inside, servants came to relieve him of his wet outer garments, leaving him in his red coat. A footman pressed a hot cup of wassail in his hand, and he let himself be led into the library, where a fire was roaring. The earl and countess joined them, chiding him for taking such a risk in stormy weather, but he had just laughed.

Cook outdid herself that day, with a magnificent roast, and while the Earl noticed Winter's insatiable appetite, Winter noticed Charlotte hardly ate anything, hanging on his every word. The family stayed up late, until Winter fell asleep in a library chair, and the countess sent a reluctant Charlotte to bed. But when he was alone, Charlotte slipped back down and, on his brow, planted a kiss she mistakenly thought he wouldn't notice, before tiptoeing back out again.

A noise brought Winter back to the present. His hand checked the pistol on his lap, caressed the smooth wood stock, felt the metal trigger. Then he reached for the blade hidden in his boot—thin, but strong, with a razor edge on each side. He was ready.

The girl he was watching meanwhile had apparently lost herself in an impossible daydream, walking slowly, and idly playing with her hair. For now, she could imagine being the well-kept mistress of a gentleman—she was still young and fairly pretty. In another year or two, she would be neither. Winter had wanted an attractive girl, but more than that, an obedient one. That miserable fat procurer had told him the first night that the man was killing the best of them, and feared "sweet little Sally" would be next.

"She was born to this, she was, captain, she’s natural for it," he had said.

Winter had told him to shut his mouth. But the man spoke anyway. He'd need more of a motivation to keep quiet, thought Winter, entertaining pleasantly dark thoughts about what he'd like to do to that bastard--thoughts he knew he couldn’t act on.

It was the third night. Winter had narrowed down the location, but couldn’t be completely sure. The killer was also easily spooked, and if the night was too lively, he didn’t show. But this evening was perfect, foggy, with little moon, in an alley a short walk to St. Jude. Wasn't he the one for lost causes? How perfect.

The girl had been complaining after two empty nights, but when Winter pointed out the options to walking out under his protection, she sulkily cooperated.

There was the barest illumination from the busy street near the alley, and Winter had a lantern, lit but masked, at his side. He had told the constables to stay some distance away and hidden, but within whistle call. They were getting bored too. But perhaps tonight. Hadn't Colonel Williams once told him, “You’re a good officer, Winter, but even better, you're a lucky one."

Winter had tried to anticipate everything, but he knew that was impossible. The noise of a boot lightly treading on a cobblestone and Winter had the pistol out, but even he wasn't fast enough: The man was quicker and darker than he had expected. It took him a second to have his arm around the girl, and a knife to her throat. But he hadn’t yet cut her when Winter had opened the lantern, stood, and aimed the pistol.

"Let the girl go and drop the knife." The man's eyes darted in each direction, but Winter blew the whistle and a moment later they heard running feet, and the squad of Bow Street Runners was on the scene. They looked uncertain at the standoff. Winter hoped they would follow his directions.

"Escape is impossible. Let the girl go, surrender, and you will have a fair trial."

And the man laughed, slightly hysterical. It was as Dr. Wolfe had said, some men were sick in body, and some sick in mind.

"Yes, a trial, and then a hanging. Well, I can take one more—one more sinner off the streets."

The Runners had brought lanterns too, and now Winter could see his face, and his clothes. Yes—a gentleman. He knew there had been a reason they couldn't find him. They were looking in all the wrong places.

The girl gurgled in absolute terror as the blade came ever closer, and Winter knew it took a lot to frighten a woman in her line of work.

"If you spill one drop of her blood, I swear you will not leave this alley alive."

"Rope or ball, it's all the same."

"No, it's not. I'll shoot you in the stomach. You might live a whole day like that, in agony you can't begin to imagine." He held the lantern up higher. "Look at me and realize I am not bluffing."

Winter saw the eyes waver and knew he had won. Before any battle, he could always look at each one of his men and tell: Who would stand to the end. Who would panic. Who would freeze.

"It would seem we have a draw, then," said the man.

"We do not. I am going to count down from five. Then I will shoot right through the girl—"

At that she screamed, and the man held her tighter.

"I will shoot right through the girl and at this range the ball will go directly into you. The girl will die instantly, but London has plenty of whores and one less won't be a problem. I'm counting now. When I reach one, I'll shoot."

The scene froze, like just like the beginning of a battle. The Runners looked both curious and frightened. The girl was now hysterical. And the man—he would break.

"Five…Four…"

"But—you're a gentleman," said the killer, who had in the short time taken in Winter's voice and demeanor, which came through despite his clothes. Winter almost laughed.

Three…Two—"

The killer threw the girl and raised his hands, still holding the dagger. He was mad, but not stupid.

"You have made a sensible decision," said Winter. He laid the pistol on a box. "Now give me that blade and come with us peacefully to Bow Street."

But the eyes darted to the discarded pistol, and he suddenly came at Winter with the knife poised to bury itself in his chest. A moment later, however, the dagger was flying, and Winter had landed a fist full into the man's face. He felt into a heavy heap on the ground, as he bled from his nose.

"Well don't stand there gawking, tie him up before he wakes. And someone pick up that blade—it will be needed for the trial." Two of the Runners woke from their stupor and did as they were told.

"I…I've never seen fighting like that, sir," said the senior Runner. "You kicked the knife right out of his hand."

"It's French street-fighting. I learned it from a French prisoner."

"Very impressive, sir, but if I may take a liberty, you shouldn't have put your pistol down while he was still armed."

"But it was intentional. I didn't want to miss the pleasure of beating him senseless." And Winter smiled humorlessly. He was an odd one, the Runners knew, and you couldn’t be sure…

Winter turned his attention to Sally, huddled and whimpering in the corner. "It’s all over, my sweet." His voice was very gentle, and he reached a hand out to her. She took a breath, then looked Winter in the eye.

"You bastard," she said, and followed with an impressive stream of invective.

"Our regimental sergeant major was known throughout the army for his skill at cursing, but you have him beat." He laughed.

"You were going to shoot me!" she said.

"I knew he'd fold. You were never in any danger. I told you that you would be safe, and you are. Now for being such a good girl, I'm going to give you a reward." He held out some money, and she stared as if she couldn't believe it. Then her hand reached out quickly and snatched it.

"Do I have to share it with…"

"I won't tell if you won't," said Winter.

"Uh…Captain…?" The constables were leading the prisoner away, stumbling and still a little stunned, and one of them was holding his lantern high into a corner of the alley. "I think I found another one."

Winter sighed and walked over. Yes, there was another woman, but he quickly saw this was something different. She was dressed in dark clothes, not the cheap gaudy dresses Sally and her cohorts wore. And her throat was untouched. Winter bent down but couldn’t immediately see a wound—and there was nothing stuffed into her mouth. The captured killer hadn’t done this one.

He stood up and sighed again. "You two—take him back to Bow Street and return with a cart, anything to carry this body away." He turned to the other two Runners. "You—take the girl back to tavern." He pulled some more coins from his pocket and handed them to one of the runners. "Get her something to drink and a hot meal." She looked even more pleased at that. "Then bring that fat bastard back. I want him to look at this girl."

"Yes, sir."

"And you—Johnson—do you know where Wilkie Lane is? Go to number 7 and you'll find a Dr. Wolfe there. Wake him and tell him I'll need him to see a body tonight."

"But, sir, orders are—"

"Orders are as I give them."

"Yes, sir."

The Runners hurried off to their tasks, and Winter was left alone with the dead woman. He took a closer look at her. Although Winter had ordered the procurer to the scene, he was sure she was not a woman of the streets. She looked clean and healthy. Her hands were soft. The woman’s dress was simple and sober—perhaps a maid on her day off, but that didn’t entirely fit either.

The young woman was beyond modesty, and Winter began looking for a wound. He found it, just under her ribcage. A very nasty hole. He stood and flashed the lantern around—no blood.

The Runner returned with the procurer, puffing and sweaty, although the night was cool.

"Captain, captain, they tell me you caught the man—I cannot tell you how grateful I am. At last, my girls are safe. They haven't been going out in the streets, and the money—"

"Your business dealings are of no interest to me. This dead girl is." He shined the lantern on the body.

"Oh, I say, Captain, not one of mine. Although I wish she had been, a pretty girl."

"I didn't think so, but I need to be sure."

"Poor little girl. These streets just aren't safe for young girls such as her."

"Your sentiment does you credit," said Winter.

"Thank you, Captain."

Sarcasm was wasted on him.

"You're dismissed—get back to your tavern. And clean it up. I'll be back in a week and if I don't like the way it looks then I’ll wake a company from the Middlesex garrison, arrest everyone, and raze your tavern to the ground. I don't care who your protectors are." And he had the pleasure of watching him run away as fast as he could with his bulk. No doubt he'd contact his patrons, to find out just how powerful Winter was—could this mysterious gentleman really shut him down? Well, at least Winter had scared him for a while.

Winter and the remaining constable waited for the cart for the body.

#

Wilkie Lane, where Dr. Wolfe lived, ran to about a dozen houses, a little scuffed but generally in good repair, and quiet. People kept themselves to themselves here, and few Londoners from other parts of the city found reason to visit.

Winter had the constable drive there and told him to stay outside with the cart. The man had had the forethought to bring a bottle of ale and some bread and cheese, and didn't seem too upset at the prospect.

Throwing the body over his shoulder, Winter entered the house, which Dr. Wolfe had left unlocked in anticipation of Winter's arrival. The doctor was dressed and in his well-lit examining room, his face impassive behind his beard.

"Don’t you ever have crimes during the workday?" asked Wolfe.

"The criminal classes work better by night," said Winter, and placed the corpse on the table.

Now Winter could see—she had been a very pretty girl, with a clear face and hair that held the remnants of a fashionable style.

"A better class of victim than usual," said the doctor. "Who is she?"

"I don’t know. She was found in an alley. There's an apparent knife wound in her side."

"We'll come to that presently. First, let’s see what we can uncover." He prodded her, then ran his hands over different bones. "This one got plenty of food." Next, he pried open her mouth. "A suitable diet."

"But her dress is plain. I guessed a superior servant, a parlor maid or lady's maid. But I looked at her hands, and now in the light, I'm sure she wasn't. They're too soft. Even lady's maids should have pinpricks from sewing or other signs of work. This woman did nothing."

"Gentry?" asked the doctor. "Should I even be examining her, then?"

Another man might've taken the doctor's reluctance for fear, but Winter had seen Wolfe calmly dressing wounds on a battlefield while musket balls flew around his head. The doctor had no fear. He had wanted to study wounds, so he just showed up at the regimental HQ and offered his service on the front lines. The need was great, so no one was in a position to turn down a volunteer doctor, even a foreigner and a Jew. And as it turned out, he saved lives and limbs. He earned Winter's respect, and then his friendship. Winter made it clear that any man who had a problem with Dr. Wolfe, had a problem with him.

"Do whatever you need to. But time isn’t unlimited. A woman of her class will be missed, and I can't keep the body forever."

"Then you'll be my assistant." They wrestled the dress off the girl.

"She was a lady. Those are expensive and fine underthings. No servant would wear those."

Winter looked up from the body to see a wry smile on the doctor's face. "Dare I ask how you come by that knowledge, my friend?"

"My position has forced me to educate myself in many different subjects," responded Winter, coolly.

"Someday the king will realize the sacrifices you have made in his service, and you'll get a knighthood," said Wolfe. "Now let's see this wound." He examined the slit in the woman's side. "Did you see lots of blood?"

"None. Not under her or nearby."

"Then she was killed elsewhere. There should've been a lot of blood. Now, as to a weapon." He pulled out some lenses. "This is different from the last ones I examined. Not only the location on her body but a much different weapon, not thin and sharp, I'd almost say a bayonet. But—there's some tearing, as if the blade had a nick. I wonder…." He frowned. "Come with me."

They walked back to the kitchen. "Let's hope Miriam doesn’t find out I was here. This is her room only." Miriam was a cousin of the doctor's, who cooked and kept house for him, with the assistance of local girl who lived out and did the heavy cleaning. Efficient and hard-working, Miriam was loyal to the doctor, but had disliked Winter from the moment she met him, and no amount of time would change that.

Kitchen knives were hanging on a rack. Wolfe selected a couple, thumbed the blades, and carried them back to the examining room. He held them against the wound. "That is my conclusion, Captain. If we assume kitchen knives are much alike, that's what killed this girl. Cooks keep them sharp, but over the years the blades get nicks, chopping through bone. She would've died quickly."

"But why a well-born girl in a servant's clothes? And why no jewelry?"

"Wouldn't anything have been stolen from the body?"

"There are no signs that rings were wrenched off quickly, or necklaces pulled off a neck. I think jewelry was removed and clothing changed, to disguise her. She was wearing something else when she was killed—we know that, because there's almost no blood on the inside of her dress, and no corresponding cut in the dress."

Wolfe stepped over to his lenses, chose one, and bent over to get as close as possible to the wound.

"Hand me my tweezers," he said, and Winter did. The doctor held his glass with one hand and manipulated the tweezers with great care into the slit. "Very good." He gingerly carried the tweezers to an odd device, almost like a sextant, and placed what he captured in the tweezers on a small glass plate. He adjusted the device and looked through an eyepiece on the top. "Very good, indeed. Captain, this is a microscope. Just as telescopes make far things close, this makes small things big. Look—tell me what you see."

Winter squinted into the eyepiece. "Blue threads."

"Exactly. When the knife went into the girl, it pushed threads from the dress into the wound. She was wearing a pale blue dress."

"You have exceeded yourself, doctor. You've worked a miracle."

"Only the good Lord above works miracles," said the doctor.

"Your Lord or mine?" asked Winter, smiling.

"Aren't they one and the same?" asked the doctor, mildly, and Winter laughed.

Dr. Wolfe turned back to the body, and explored her hands, and feet and various joints. It was almost impossible to imagine this girl in a fashionable dress, dancing at one of the Season's parties. And Winter didn't try. He had seen fields of men like that, and thoughts about the lives they had led before, the lives they would never now lead, could only provoke madness.

"There is little roughness. The young lady did not walk much and did no work, as you guessed. Additional proof she was a lady of leisure. But if it helps you, she broke the smallest finger on her left hand. They either didn't send for a doctor quickly enough or he was clumsy. There would've been some permanent stiffness."

"They should've called for you."

"Yes, I am the first physician the English gentry considers," he said, dryly.

Then Dr. Wolfe thought for a moment and laid his hand on her abdomen. "My friend, I think the young lady has one more secret to give up. Hand me that tray of tools…" Wolfe's fingers worked quickly and surely, his brow furrowed as he focused on his tasks. Then he allowed himself a smile of triumph. "It is as I thought. The young lady was with child."

"You're certain?"

"Within the first three months, I believe. She should've known." He shrugged. "Unless she chose not to know."

"So, I have a pregnant woman from a good family in a part of London she shouldn't even have known about, let alone entered, in a dress that wasn't hers. This will be a little harder than finding out who decided to rid London of whores."

"And that reminds me. How does that investigation fare?"

"I actually caught the man this evening. I found this girl in the same area, and first thought she was another of his victims."

"Congratulations on your success."

"Yours too, doctor. You were the one who identified the kind of blade it was." The doctor had examined the murdered ladies of the street and had concluded the blade was expensive and well-cared for, hardly something a common criminal would carry. "You were right. He was mad." Winter made a grimace. "Somewhat like our king, I suppose." It wasn't openly discussed in Society, but King George III had become "unwell," as it was politely said. His son had been given most of the king's power, his royal purse and the title of "Prince Regent"—all of which he used more to pursue pleasure than to govern.

"The murderer or your English king—beyond my poor skills. But I am pleased I could assist with your case. Can I find you something to eat before you go?"

"Thank you, but I should be getting the body back to Bow Street. Someone is probably looking for her." And hunger was the only thing keeping him awake.

"Very well, but as your friend and doctor, I ask you to take care of your health."

#

Winter and the Runner drove back to Bow Street, where the body was placed, and Winter arranged to be informed if anyone inquired after a missing woman. He thought finally to get back to his lodgings for food and sleep, when he received another surprise: Sir Alston Tenebrac himself. Winter had rarely seen him outside of chambers at Whitehall, but even in Bow Street's rough quarters he looked much the same. He wore plain but beautifully tailored clothes that suited his short stature. His pale face, which rose to a perfectly bald head, was dominated by two small eyes, as dark and sharp as obsidian, and they darted around, missing nothing.

"Sir Alston. A pleasure to see you here."

"And a great surprise, I am sure." His voice was just over a whisper, but it caught your attention. Sir Alston was a lawyer, and they taught you those tricks of the voice, Winter had heard. "I hear you caught the man responsible for those dreadful murders of prostitutes. Slitting their throats and stuffing bible verses into their mouths. How did you catch him? I look forward to your report, but surely you can give me a précis now."

Winter didn't ask how Sir Alston had found out so quickly. It would've been impertinent, as well as pointless—Sir Alston seemed to hear everything.

"The bible verses stuffed into the girls' mouths, in the opinion of a physician I consulted, suggested a madman, sir. One with a peculiar religious bent. I inquired at various churches to see if the ministers had been visited by anyone displaying unseemly religious fervor and found something else—someone had disturbed a different church near each murder on each night. But nothing was stolen or damaged, so no reports were made. It seems he went to pray after each killing. I mapped the murders and churches and could draw a line from the fashionable neighborhoods deeper into the poor areas. After each murder, he had to descend deeper to find a new victim, but he never was far from a church. That pointed to a gentleman—"

At that word, Sir Alston raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Also, the weapon was an expensive blade. He was clearly not a resident of the area. Knowing he had to be near a church but not far from an area prostitutes walked, and that he had to travel a little further each time, I narrowed down the places."

Sir Alston nodded. "It sounds like you planned a military campaign."

"That was my training, sir."

"Of course, of course. I am pleased at the resolution. The matter was becoming increasingly gossiped about by the servant class, and when that happens, it's only a matter of time before their masters hear about it. But to new matters. On arriving here for a discussion of the case with the magistrates, I heard you have deposited another body. A woman apparently from a good family."

"That is the only aspect that is apparent, sir. I don't even have an identity. I assume you want me to investigate, sir?"

"That would seem advisable, Captain. But with tact and discretion. I want to be kept closely informed on this." He looked Winter up and down. "You might want to refresh yourself first, though."

"My thoughts exactly, sir."

"Then I will wish you good day." He took several steps, then turned. "Tact and discretion, Captain."

#

Winter's timing was fortunate—breakfast was just being served at the Cravell house. Violet, the little maid, was racing around the table with hot toast. Mr. Cravell sipped tea sparingly, as if he was afraid to spill on drop on his unfashionable but extremely respectable suit. Mrs. Cravell's eyes looked for any sign of imperfection, from the table settings, to the position of the teapot, to the behavior of her two boys.

"It's not polite to whisper," she admonished them.

She stopped searching when Winter walked in. "Bless me, Captain Winter, I said to Mr. Cravell, I hoped Captain Winter would make it to breakfast. We have set you a plate. You look like you need a good meal."

"Yes, bless you, Mrs. Cravell, you are correct. I trust I will not offend you, but I was traveling extensively tonight and am still in my riding clothes."

"Nonsense, Captain. You were working hard on the King's business. Take a seat and think nothing more of it."

He looked around the table, and his eye landed on a new occupant, a young woman with an outdoor complexion and the peculiarly rich flaxen hair you found in the old Saxon families. Her dress was plain, but suited her nicely rounded figure. This girl is a dairy maid, concluded Winter. He had known such girls in his boyhood, with their strong hands and creamy cheeks, and he remembered the songs they sang with their gentle voices while they worked.

This particular girl had soft grey eyes that looked at him with curiosity and perhaps some amusement.

"I haven't had the pleasure," he said, gravely.

"I am sorry, Captain," said Mrs. Cravell. "I was going to make an introduction after you had had a little tea. Miss Charity Thorne, may I present Captain Edmund Winter, who works with Mr. Cravell at Whitehall. Miss Thorne is my niece, my brother's daughter." She paused for full effect. "Captain Winter is foster brother to the Earl of Rockland. He is originally from Rockland Court, and now the Earl and Countess are up for the Season, aren’t they, Captain? They are no doubt with the Hon. Miss Charlotte Fitzhugh, the countess's niece, daughter of the late Viscount Devereaux, and granddaughter of the Duke of Vale."

There would be no changing the words to that song. It was Mrs. Cravell's favorite.

"Your servant, miss," said Winter. Yes, that must be amusement in those eyes. "I hope your journey up to London was pleasant."

"Very much so, Captain. It's my first visit to London, and I am finding it most interesting."

"No one can help but find London interesting," he said, and started to eat. Mrs. Cravell was beaming at him, for some reason. "Mr. Cravell, I met with Sir Alston at Bow Street. I expect he may be there for some time. So don't be surprised if he is not in the office when you arrive."

"I have been in Sir Alston's service for 20 years, and have ceased to be surprised at anything he does," said Mr. Cravell, in his usual somber tone. It was as if he had gone into mourning when Queen Anne had died a century before and still hadn't come out. He was Sir Alston's chief clerk, which is how Winter had come to rent a room in their house. "I thank you, though, for the information. I trust your meeting at Bow Street was due to a successful conclusion in your task?"

"Very successful, thank you, Mr. Cravell. Sir Alston seemed pleased."

"Very good, then," said Mr. Cravell. The boys glanced at Winter, who was a figure of romance and mystery to them and resumed whispering. Mrs. Cravell's eyes darted to Miss Thorne, who spoke. "May I inquire about the nature of your work for Sir Alston, Captain? I understand from my uncle that you work in a bureau of the Home Office."

Winter, happily in the middle of a sausage, had to think. Mr. Cravell looked like he was going to answer the question, but a furious look from his wife silenced him.

"My particular bureau is concerned with curbing the criminal classes, Miss Thorne, as the Home Office overall is concerned with upholding the law. My military experience and travels abroad have given me some peculiar knowledge, and I advise their lordships in government as best I can. I file reports for the most part; it's rather dull."

He didn't think to say more, but Miss Thorne continued to look at him expectantly, as if he were in the middle of a story she wanted him to finish, so he continued. "You may not be aware, but London does not have a professional police force—that is, men who are trained and paid to prevent crime and catch criminals, unlike Paris, which has had such a body for many years."

"That's very interesting, Captain. We hear so little of the world outside of Cheshire back home." Winter could think of nothing else to say, as he became acutely aware of his clothes, inconsistent with the rather clerkly job he had just described. He felt her intelligent eyes on him; this young woman knew he didn't spend his days behind a desk, or his nights riding a horse. She probably didn't believe he was an earl's foster brother either.

She spoke again. "So, Captain, if I understand you rightly, Paris has a—what you called a 'professional police force.' And London—well, London has you." There was merriment in those eyes now.

Yes, Miss Thorne was definitely laughing at him.

***

Excerpt from Winter's Season by R.J. Koreto. Copyright 2026 by R.J. Koreto. Reproduced with permission from R.J. Koreto. All rights reserved.

From Chapter 1

Two hours later, they had managed to corral the quickly sobering Freddy into the back of the Suburban, with no more eventful chases, and turn him over to the county jail. Freddy’s bail bondsman paid out their fair share of the bond and a huge tip after some hard pressing on T.J.’s part about the circumstances leading up to Freddy’s apprehension. Once the check was cashed, a celebratory late lunch at one of the best Basque eateries Dot had found in Boise was the best way to top off a successful day of bounty hunting.

Parked behind the Bar Gernika, she and T.J. sat in the back end of the Chevy Suburban with the hatch up eating chorizo sandwiches with smoked cod croquetas and a bowl of green olives dripping in garlic olive oil. Dot slurped down half of her Coke, then shook the ice in her cup.

T.J. pointed the remains of his smoked beef chorizo at her. “We should register for the SHOT show in Vegas.”

“Why?”

“Because we can.” T.J. pulled his duh face.

Dot rolled her eyes and bit into her sandwich.

“Have you ever been there?” T.J. asked.

She shook her head, wiping smokey chorizo juice from the corner of her mouth.

“The woman raised to be a hunter and a firearms collector has never been to the great SHOT show?” He lowered his reflective sunglasses and eyed her over the top of the rims. “Never?”

“You do realize my family wasn’t made of money.” Dot popped one of the croquetas into her mouth. “And that’s in the dead of winter, when we couldn’t just up and run off while we were in the middle of lambing season.”

“All the more reason you should go now.” T.J. grinned. “A lot of the best bounty hunters meet up there.”

Dot scowled at her partner and sometimes bunk buddy. “Lemme guess. You wanna show off your shiny new partner to the boys?”

“Maybe.” His grin turned devilish. “Or maybe I wanna see you kick their asses.”

Dot wadded up the sandwich wrapper and chucked it at T.J.’s head. “I’m not a toy.”

The crumbled ball of waxed paper bounced off his forehead and landed on the Suburban floor between them.

“Really? Then why are you so easy to wind up?”

“You sonofa—” Dot lunged for his throat but was quickly subdued.

Their moment of levity was interrupted by a shrill ring from T.J.’s phone.

“Damn it,” he snapped and patted down his body in search for his cell.

Dot found it lying on the makeshift floor behind his hulking frame. She snatched it up and checked the screen. She batted her eyelashes at T.J.

“Don’t you dare,” he snarled.

She pressed the green icon to answer the call. “Well, hello, cousin dearest.”

Lawyer-extraordinaire and covert purveyor of information, Vivian Montgomery was Dot’s second cousin. And apparently had earned a spot on T.J.’s contact list under the moniker of Hot Ass Lawyer.

“Dot? When did you start taking business calls?” Vivian asked, her brisk tone underscored by the sound of her heavy breathing.

“What are you doing?” Dot asked. “You sound like you’re saving the horse and riding a cowboy.”

“Oh, grow up. I’m on a treadmill. Put T.J. on the phone.”

“You shouldn’t run on those things. They destroy your knees and back,” Dot chided.

“When I want health advice from a cigar smoker who jumps from helicopters for fun, I’ll call.”

“I don’t jump from the helo. Unless it’s crashing. Even then, that’s sketchy shit.”

T.J., giving a rumbling growl, jerked the phone from Dot, and pressed it to his ear. “Vivian, what do you need?” He waited a moment, then with another low growl, pulled the phone from his ear and put it on speaker. “You’re on speaker.”

“I need a huge favor from the two of you.”

“When you say huge favor, how huge are we talking?” Dot asked.

“You know, I think I liked you better when you were a brooding, isolated eremite whose main goal in life was equal parts trying to piss off her mother and keep her out of trouble,” Vivian shot back.

“Love you too, coz.”

“Now shut up and let me finish.” The whining sound of the treadmill belt slowing echoed over the phone connection. “I just got a call from one of my colleagues. She had a client fail to appear today.”

“Shouldn’t the defendant’s bail bondsman be calling us?” T.J. asked.

“It’s … complicated.”

Dot smiled as T.J. groaned.

“Vivian, every time you rope us into one of your firm’s problems with their unruly children, we’re out money, time, and patience. We’re called bounty hunters for a reason. Bounty is in the name.”

“Roman, if you keep up the condescending behavior, I’ll expose your dirty little secret.”

“Dirty secret, huh,” Dot piped in. “What’s that?”

He thrust a finger at her nose. “None of your business. Vivian, if you so much as breathe out of line, I’ll make you regret it.”

“Will you do me the favor?”

T.J. stared at Dot, who shrugged as if to say, Why not?

“Fine. Mark my words, I’ll be cashing in on this huge favor sooner than you think.”

“I wouldn’t have bothered you with this, expect the guy is a veteran, and you two being veterans yourself, I figured he’d be more likely to work with you than anyone else.”

“What’s on his file?” Dot asked.

“That’s the complicated part. Officially, his file says he was picked up a third time for carrying with the intent to sell. Unofficially, he’s … classified.”

Dot frowned as she and T.J. locked eyes. As a former army ranger who spent a lot of time flying in and out of forward operating bases in Afghanistan, T.J. knew all about classified situations. Dot, as the main helicopter pilot shuttling him and his team back and forth, though never read in on his actual missions, typically was under strict orders of her own.

“Vivian, I’m not getting fuzzy feelings about this,” T.J. said.

“Neither am I. It’s why I’m calling the two of you in. The judge wants to issue a bench warrant. My colleague was able to ask for a delay before it’s submitted. She was given three hours to present her client or the warrant is released. If you’d rather, you could consider this job PI work instead of fugitive recovery.”

The shingle hanging outside their business office did say private investigators. At this point, that title belonged to T.J. and T.J. alone.

“Still not selling me on this,” he said. “If there’s no bench warrant, there’s no cash for catching him.”

“Hang on.” Vivian spoke to someone, her voice muffled, then she was back. “The firm will pay you a finder’s fee.”

T.J. continued to stare at Dot. She could sense what he was thinking. He was torn. Take this off-the-cuff job and cash in on the favor department with Vivian to help a fellow veteran? Or say fuck it and play hooky for the rest of the day like he’d planned?

Dot didn’t really have much of a say in the business dealings of their partnership since she was eight months into the training phase as a fugitive recovery agent and she wasn’t a licensed PI. It didn’t stop T.J. from pressing her for her opinion, who argued that, because she was about to start taking bounties on her own, she needed to take the reins more often.

“If it helps you make a decision, I’ve got his last known address and a phone number along with a photo,” Vivian said. “This won’t be a hard catch.”

“Stop saying that. Every time you tell me it’s an easy one, it turns into a disaster,” T.J. snarled.

“He’s right,” Dot added.

“Okay, I retract my statement. But, please say yes. Huge favor to me. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?”

Dot glared at him.

“Within reason,” Vivian shot back.

“We’ll do it,” Dot said, tired of T.J.’s runaround. “Send us the four-one-one, and we’ll go check it out.”

T.J. glared at her; his dark eyes flashed a warning. Dot returned his glare with a smug look of her own that dared him to bring it.

“Thank you, coz. Hurry. There’s only two hours left before the bench warrant goes out. Then it’ll be a free-for-all.”

“You couldn’t have called us about this an hour ago?” T.J. groused.

“Shut your yap, Roman,” Vivian said. “There. Info sent.”

His phone dinged.

“His name is Cade Porter. He was a staff sergeant in the Marine Corps.” Vivian sucked in a breath. “Oooh.”

“Oooh, what?” T.J. insisted.

“If this is right, he was in an artillery unit.”

“Oh my God.” T.J. groaned.

Dot grinned. Not only did acting on a favor for Vivian chafe T.J. in the chaps, but doing it for a Marine with explosives expertise was going to make that chafe burn. Throughout their long, storied history, there had always been a deep-seated friendly animosity between the army and the Marines. Push came to shove, however, they still had each other’s backs.

“If that crayon eater blows us up, I’m going to haunt you,” he said.

“I look forward to the visits. Now get going.” Vivian ended the call.

T.J. shoved his phone in a side pocket of his cargo pants. “Tell me again why we let Vivian help us out?”

“Because,” Dot said as she scooted out of the SUV’s backend, “she’s good for the money. And I trust her intel more than I would some of your bail bondsmen.”

“You say that because you’re biased.”

“Nire familia da. Garrantzitsua da.”

T.J. paused before closing the hatch. “I speak Pashto, Arabic, some Spanish, and Oklahoman. I do not speak Basque.”

Dot chuckled. “Time to learn, Danger Ranger.”

“Load up and let’s roll.”

***

Excerpt from Bait the Devil by Winter Austin. Copyright 2026 by Winter Austin. Reproduced with permission from Winter Austin. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

The first rule on my “JD Wolfe’s Survival List” was: Don’t trust the ghost, because she couldn’t leave anything alone. Not when you were awake, not when you were asleep, not when she was haunting you. Not when the only surprise you received for your eighth birthday, other than the death of your mom in a fire, was for the ghost who had tormented her to transfer that torment to you.

And torment you forever.

During the thirteen years since the fire, I went from homeless to orphan to private eye. I reinvented myself. I became stronger. When life comes at you, and you have no one to protect you, and flight isn’t an option, you either fight or surrender.

I chose fight.

I took my adopted family’s surname and changed my name from Diamond, the girl with no last name, to Justyne Diamond Wolfe, or JD for short. I haven’t forgotten my survival rules.

I’ve added more to the list.

Past midnight, I sat hunched at the counter, scrolling through my phone in one of those diners you see in the movies with wide windows, cushy booths, a long counter, and pictures of All American Little League baseball teams lining the walls. You’d expect to see couples snuggled in the booths and a clean-cut, milkshake melt-in-your-mouth kind of guy in a starched button-down shirt. Instead, I was alone with Creepy Diner Guy working the counter. His hair slicked back, his shirt a stain-spattered rendering of a Jackson Pollock painting, his buttons playing hopscotch, missing every other hole.

He wiped a dirty rag around a glass jar with a MISSING flier taped to the front. A pretty, fresh-faced, school-age girl smiled for the camera wearing decades-old clothes and a Hello Kitty backpack. The change and dollar bills stuffed into the jar suggested hope was still alive.

I wasn’t so sure. In my experience, hope was for suckers.

“Get you another coffee, Red?” His nasty meth-smile busted and blackened.

“Still struggling with this one.” I swirled the sludge he called coffee in the bottom of my cup. It had created a tar pit inside my gut. I decided to check in with the office before the coffee killed me.

On the stool at my nine, a ball of light appeared. Flickered. Sparked in shades between blue, violet and eye-piercing white. The air snapped. The skin on my arms tingled and puckered like a plucked goose’s butt.

The light shifted from a pixelated pattern into a semi-transparent woman, all monochromatic shades of gray. Stringy hair stuck to her face, hiding her features. Only her silver eyes and charcoal lips showed through. A dingy nightgown hung from her shoulders and fluttered in shreds around her bare feet.

Home, home, home, the ghost whispered in my brain, where the thoughts were supposed to be mine, not hers. One of many things about the Woman that ticked me off.

Most people would call the ghost a spirit or specter, but I preferred “the Woman.”

Or “Bitch.”

Instead of playing patty-cake and singing nursery rhymes, I learned how to survive living with a not-so-dearly departed. I didn’t care how she died, only that she stuck to my mom like a nasty rash.

The second rule I learned? Never tell anyone about the ghost. Otherwise, they’ll think you’re crazy and lock you up.

Creepy Diner Guy didn’t react to his supernatural guest. He walked past and wiped down tables. That didn’t shock me. My mom had been the only other living person I’d known who could see or hear or smell the Woman.

Even when the Woman didn’t appear, she watched. Listened. Waited for a way to interfere. It was inevitable. I lived with the dead.

An overwhelming smell of lavender clung to the Woman. I gagged on the disgusting sweetness. My hand tugged at the collar of my leather jacket and the t-shirt beneath. “Why can’t you give me one day?” I whispered. “One day without your lavender scent up my nose, your annoying voice blabbing in my head, your bony butt blocking my way?”

S-s-sorry, s-s-sorry, sorry, she repeated.

“Yeah, right. If you were sorry, you’d go back to hell.”

La-la-late. The staccato beat of her words pounded against my temples. As if the ghost cared if she didn’t get forty winks.

“I’m on a job. Go away.” I worked in the family’s business, White Wolfe Investigations. Today’s job was more of a payback than a paycheck. My adopted father, Milt Wolfe—whom I liked to call Fixer Geezer in my head—owed a lifelong favor to his old Navy buddy, Master Chief Ben Palmer. I didn’t know why Master Chief had bought a 24-hour diner right off I-95. Senile? Maybe.

This kind of debt could never be paid off. How could you put a price on someone saving your life?

I understood Milt’s orders: Sit tight. Observe and report. Master Chief thought Creepy Diner Guy volunteered for the night shift to make money on the shady side of life—the side where things slip from white-lie gray to back-alley black; the side where cops close your restaurant and cart you off to jail.

My phone buzzed. No doubt it was one of the Geezers. Two brothers I considered my real fathers, and my bosses. “Sweet cheeks, I’ll be home soon.”

“Sweet cheeks?” Their voices blended into one. They’d put me on speakerphone. Great. Two opinionated, life-controlling Geezers for the price of one.

I couldn’t bring myself to call Milt anything like Dad or Daddy or Pop. Some things took time and a barge load of counseling. “Is everything okay, Sweet Cheeks?”

“Has he passed any packages? Drugs? Money?” Cliff Wolfe, a.k.a. Smarty Pants Geezer and my adopted uncle, was super stinkin’ smart. The type of smart that could send a rocket to the moon but not close the refrigerator door.

“Nope. Only coffee.” I ignored the ghost and monitored Creepy Diner Guy. He picked at a stain on his shirt and popped something into his mouth.

My stomach revolted.

“Stolen anything?” Street smart and straight to the point, Milt didn’t waste words.

“Nope. Nada. Not cash from the till or a quarter from the floor.”

“Be smart.” Uncle Cliff’s voice geared into lecture mode.

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be smart.”

“Don’t approach anyone. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Get the intel. Get home. You’re more important than a favor.” Milt, the man who fixed everything with what he had on hand, even if it was only his brute strength or a rubber band, sounded as strong and sure as the day he saved me from St. Francis’ Group Home for Lost Souls. A fancy name for an orphanage. People rebrand and rename. It’s all the same. Group home or orphanage. I preferred orphanage. Or St. Francis’ Hell Hole.

The name didn’t catch on.

“Pleeease.” Unwanted emotions compressed my chest. I struggled to remain in character. “I know better than to talk to strangers.”

“She can handle this.” The rise in Cliff’s voice vetoed any worry.

Creepy Diner Guy inched closer with each swipe of his rag.

Unsure what he could hear, I kept my words soft. “Don’t worry. I’m a big girl.”

The Woman leaned in.

I leaned away, checking the diner’s clock. “It’s past midnight. Do you need me home?”

“A few more hours. Nothing good happens between midnight and three,” said Cliff.

“I don’t like her on her own.” Concern lined the deep timbre of Milt’s voice. “We’ll meet you there. Follow orders and stay safe.”

My face burned solar-flare hot. He didn’t trust me. How could I prove myself if he didn’t give me a chance? “Sheesh. You don’t need to pick me up. I can drive home. I’m not eleven anymore.”

Back ramrod-straight, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, the Woman disapproved of my tone. You’d think after decades of death, she’d have pulled the sequoia-sized stick out of her spectral butt.

“It’s been a long time since you lived on the streets.” Milt shouted into the speakerphone. Technology wasn’t one of his strengths.

“Sweet cheeks, don’t yell.” A sick part of me enjoyed the charade. “I can hear you.” My gaze flickered to Creepy Diner Guy, and I clicked down the volume on my phone. “It’s a cellphone, not a handheld radio.”

“Milt’s right. We shouldn’t have sent you in alone.” Cliff’s words rose decibels higher than his brother’s.

They’d joined forces and wanted to pull the plug on my mission. I couldn’t let that happen.

“I’m okay.” I kept my voice light and confident. To ease their angst, I added a hint of humor. “Worrying is only going to make you grayer.” By age seven, I’d mastered controlling my voice to manipulate adults. That was how you survived when you were the proxy adult because your mom had surrendered to another drug-enhanced dream.

Bored with our conversation, the Woman hummed a song—not a pop or a rap or a country song, but that lullaby. I rubbed my temples, biting my tongue to prevent myself from begging her to stop.

“Keep us posted.” Milt barked out the order as if I was a newbie boot on his ship.

I suppressed an aye, aye, Sir, and replied, “Be home soon.” I hung up and glared at the Woman. “Don’t you start.”

The Woman switched to a jazzy tune.

I passed the time naming the stains on Creepy Diner Guy’s shirt. Red—ketchup. Yellow—mustard. There was a slick of brown across his midriff. Grease? Gravy?

The coffee pit in my belly bubbled. I didn’t want to know.

He shuffled into the back and returned with a plate stacked high with raw hamburger patties and a bag of frozen fries. He tossed the meat on the grill, dumped the fries into a basket, lowered them into grease, and wiped the grill’s metal front with his rag.

In the mirror above the grills, I scanned the parking lot behind me through the diner’s gigantic windows. Empty except for my Jeep.

Through the same mirror, Creepy Diner Guy gave me a hey-baby-I’m-the-answer-to-your-prayers look.

I shot back a don’t-make-me-shove-that-rag-down-your-throat glare. The ghost’s laughter rang in my head. A girly giggle slipped from my throat before I could kill it.

Creepy Diner Guy flipped the hamburgers. He turned, wiping his hands down his shirt. “Waiting for a boyfriend?”

“Expecting a midnight rush?” I countered. The meat smelled a little off, or maybe the nauseous odor came from him.

“Nonya.”

Was that code for something? “Nonya?”

“None ya business.” His shrill laugh shredded my eardrums. He planted his elbows on the counter and leaned in. “Lived in Rubyville long?” His lunch haunted his breath. Hamburger with extra onions.

Home, home, home.

“Kinda,” I replied with my own one-word cryptic answer and snubbed the ghost.

Home, Home, HOME. The Woman didn’t like to be left out or ignored. The longer it went, the more insistent she’d become. At least her humming stopped.

Creepy Diner Guy turned back to the grill, removed the hamburgers, and lifted the basket of fries from the grease. He came around the counter. Sat on a ripped vinyl stool, sandwiched me between his onion breath and the Woman’s putrid potpourri. He leaned close. “I like green eyes and red hair. You look real good in black.”

As if I cared what he thought. Shades from onyx to ebony filled ninety percent of my wardrobe. My leather jacket and knee-high boots fell comfortably in the range. Black was easy to accessorize. It went with more black. “Uh-huh. Thanks.”

Truck pipes rumbled. I checked the parking lot in the mirror. A baby-blue, nineteen-eighty-two Ford parked out front. I’d love to have a truck like that. All shiny and clean.

Home, Home, Home.

I raised my phone as a shield between his breath and me. I texted the Geezers: Got movement, adding the truck’s description and license plate number. In a low voice, I told the Woman, “Hit the bricks.”

“No need to be like that. I’m not going to hurt you,” Creepy Diner Guy replied, his tone operator-smooth. He rubbed a piece of my hair between his fingers. My hair. “Red’s my favorite color.”

My muscles tensed. One swift back fist. That’s all it would take. He could add fresh blood to the stains on his shirt. Bright red would enhance his color palette. Besides, red was his favorite.

But I was on a job. A job I couldn’t mess up by spilling his blood. “Don’t you have more burgers to flip? Potatoes to peel?”

“You wanna peel my potato?”

The coffee tar backed up into my throat. Leaning into my third rule—keep everything important safe in your boots and everything important will keep you safe—I palmed the knife from my boot and showed him the blade. “I can peel more than that. Wanna play?”

Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, the Woman chanted. The lights in the diner flashed.

I slid the blade of my knife against his jaw, giving him a free shave. “You’re not really bad, are you?”

The diner’s door opened. I shifted, keeping my back between the door and the knife. No need to frighten a customer or warn off the pick-up guy.

Creepy Diner Guy’s face turned morgue gray. Scared stiff worked for him. He scrambled backward, helter-skelter, and side slipped from the stool.

“That’s what I thought.” I lowered my knife.

Like a buck caught in the crosshairs, he froze. A tsunami of fear flowed over his face. He gazed over my head. Neither my blade nor the Woman caused his locked stare.

Someone scarier than a knife to his throat stood behind me.

Dread dripped down my backbone like bacon grease from a hot pan, setting my nerves on fire. I tucked my chin and snuck a peek over my shoulder.

Scary didn’t do the guy justice. He was a mashup of Godzilla and King Kong—butt ugly and horribly wrong. A massive neck—a monster mama would be proud of—steel-studded earlobes, his hair spiky and nuclear green. He’d claimed this cement jungle and declared himself king.

And I?

I was the bug in his way. But I wasn’t Diamond, the girl with no last name, anymore. I was JD Wolfe, Private Eye.

***

Excerpt from Haunted by a Broken Oath by Dee Armstrong. Copyright 2025 by Dee Armstrong. Reproduced with permission from Dee Armstrong. All rights reserved.

Hannah Johansson stood at the lectern in front of 300 people staring at her, waiting for her to say something heartfelt and meaningful. She looked around the room. A room that was unfamiliar to her even though she’d been in it thousands of times. But that was when it was the multipurpose room at the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge. She played in the large barn-like structure as a child with her dolls and toys and electric trains. She practiced her jumpshot here when her father put up a hoop after she made her junior high team. And when she was a little older, it was where she came when she needed to be alone with her thoughts and her guitar.

But the room that Hannah knew was gone. It was now the Axel Johansson Memorial Auditorium, renamed to honor her father’s memory.

Every seat was filled. The first two rows were reserved for relatives and VIPs. Hannah’s aunt Gilda and cousins Catherine and Phillip were sitting in the middle of the front row, flanked by officials from the Mayor’s Office, the New York City Parks Department, the National Parks Service and local assemblymen and state senators. The second row held representatives from a half-dozen environmental organizations including the Sierra Club, the National Audubon Society and the World Wildlife Fund.

The rest of the packed hall was crammed with children from neighborhood schools, birdwatching enthusiasts from all over the city and beyond, and men and women of all ages and ethnicities who loved the beauty and tranquility of the Refuge and wanted to show their appreciation and gratitude for the man who created and nurtured it.

Michael Leigh, the president of the east coast chapter of the National Environmental Conservancy and the organizer of the event, had just finished the last of a dozen tributes to her father, the man who transformed a rat infested, garbage strewn swamp into one of New York City’s environmental treasures.

Before Leigh left the stage he said, “Our final speaker, Superintendent Johansson’s daughter Hannah, would like to say a few words.”

On one side of the podium an easel held a portrait of her father in his khaki superintendent’s uniform, surrounded by a snowy egret, a great blue heron and a glossy ibis, painted by the celebrated wildlife artist Arthur Singer. On the other side was a wrought iron plant stand, but in place of a plant it held a hand-enameled aluminum urn containing her father’s ashes.

Tiny pearls of sweat formed on Hannah’s forehead. She gripped the lectern for support.

“Thank you all for coming,” she said, fighting to maintain composure. “I know my father meant a lot to you. He meant everything to me. He was my hero. My mentor. My best friend. I loved him more than I could ever possibly say.”

Her face contorted. Her eyes welled up.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I killed him,” she wailed.

***

Excerpt from Hard Headed Woman by Howard Gimple. Copyright 2024 by Howard Gimple. Reproduced with permission from Howard Gimple. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Dying can bring out the best in people. It can also bring out the worst of secrets. Oh, not only about the dead—sure, that’s when everyone starts whispering about the dearly departed. No, I’m talking about the secrets of the living who are left behind. Sometimes, those people get brazen about their dastardly deeds when someone involved in those deeds dies. They don’t always keep them well hidden. Often, too, a death sheds too much light on too many people. Light others would rather not be in—like Wyle E. Coyote’s oncoming train in the tunnel. It can be too revealing for some. Blinding for others. One secret often leads to another. Another death. And by another death, I mean murder.

So, if you want to know who your friends are, or what they’re truly up to, kill one.

It works every time.

What makes me so sure? Murder is my thing. I’m a homicide cop in the historic Virginia city of Winchester. Winchester has a hell of a murder rate that most don’t know about. I know because I’ve solved more than twenty murders in the last few years alone. Well, seventeen to be precise. Three deaths were accidents and suicides—not something I tell stories about. But the other seventeen—phew, what a rush. As you can see, I’m an expert on the dead.

More about that later.

At the moment, it was a beautiful August afternoon in Winchester, Virginia. As always on these beautiful August days in Winchester, it was hot as, er, … it was hot. Luckily, instead of being in the dog days of summer, I sat in the air conditioning atop a stack of wooden crates in our local library, ogling the beautiful woman working across the room from me. Her auburn hair flowed around her shoulders like a silk veil, and her green eyes sparkled even in the dark. At thirty-eight, she had the hourglass figure a twenty-year-old would die for—and today it was wrapped in jeans and a denim shirt with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. This lady’s charm and intelligence radiated an allure that stole my heart the moment I pulled her over for an undeserved speeding ticket back in the day. Sure, sure, it was unethical. Hey, I didn’t give her the ticket after securing a date.

Fortunately, the statute of limitations on cheesy pickup ploys expired years ago.

This lady was doing her best to ignore me—difficult as it was—though she wanted nothing more than to get lost in my affections. No, really, it’s true.

Full disclosure. This angel was formally Dr. Angela Hill Tucker, Assistant Dean and Chairwoman of History at the Mosby Center for American Studies, University of the Shenandoah Valley. Yep, my wife. Today, she was researching a new historical find in the Lower-Level Research Room at the Handley Library, a local historical landmark. The Lower Level is actually the library’s finished basement. Since it’s a classy place, they call it the Lower Level.

Angel sat at a cluttered wooden desk beside crates of documents discovered in a formerly undiscovered sub-basement at the Winchester Courthouse—another historic building. Yeah, I know, we have a lot of historic buildings in town. That’s because Winchester dates back to George Washington’s day, and we’ve played a big part in American history ever since. Anyway, she had just opened one of the six large, wooden crates to begin work. The first few items she took out were more of the same as many of the other crates—folded files tied with leather straps. There were a few land maps and surveyors’ drawings, and an old silver-plate photograph of a family standing around a horse carriage with grim, pasty faces.

Angel was in heaven—pardon the pun. She spent much of her life in rooms just like this one, doing what she was now doing—researching old stuff. Okay, it’s historically significant old stuff. The other part of her life she spent in pursuit of her real passion—trying to be a crack detective like me. Oh, I’m her real passion, too. But don’t tell her I said that. It’s our secret.

All day, I’d sat with my feet propped up on a crate, bored. I had on the same clothes as usual—blue jeans, running shoes, a blue Oxford button-down shirt, and a blue blazer. Angel once called my ensemble, ‘old guy sexy.’ I don’t know about the old guy—I’m only forty-one—but I’ll take the sexy part.

“Hey, Angel,” I said, stretching. “How about we go grab takeout?”

She ignored me. Not unusual. Not that she was so focused on her work, but because working at a small table across the room was her research assistant, Andy-somebody. She didn’t want to fluster him, so she just made believe I wasn’t around. We have this thing, you see.

“Hey, it’s a beautiful summer day. Maybe steaks on the grill and wine?”

She glanced up and gave me one of those “God, I want you” looks. Okay, maybe it was a “quiet, I’m working” look.

“Angela?” The thin, shaggy-haired assistant, Andrew Pellman, walked to the stack of crates beside her. He lifted one of the crates, grunted a little from the unexpected weight, and set it on the corner of her desk. “I’m done computerizing the inventory from crates one and two. Shall I get a head start on crate four while you finish crate three?”

“No, Andrew. We’ll keep to our process.” She saw his face melt into a pout. Me, I would have let him cry, but she was the kind soul in the family. “Oh, all right. Go ahead and begin. Follow our guidelines closely. One document at a time. Identify, inventory, and scan what you can. Photograph any that won’t stand up to the scanning process. Andrew, be careful—very careful.”

His face lit up. “Sure, Angela, I’ll be careful.”

Pellman was a meek kid in his mid-twenties. He was working on his doctoral thesis at the university, and Angel was his dissertation advisor. I didn’t like him. Not one bit. I have a sixth sense about people. When he was around, my BS meter pings like it does with politicians and faux car warranty stalkers. Andy was a new class of “some people” that I hadn’t labeled yet.

“I think you should call me Professor Tucker,” Angel said with an easy tone. “Let’s keep this professional. Okay?”

“Yes, Professor Tucker.”

“It’s not personal, Andrew.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

Angel flipped through a document and stopped. She retrieved another and did a comparison. Finally, she looked over at Pellman. “Have you seen any references to ‘M35W?’ Do you recognize it from anything you’ve done?”

“Why?” He walked to her worktable. “Is it important?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. It seems out of place. Like some kind of acronym or citation. Can you check your new research engine tomorrow?”

“Sure, okay. It’ll give me a good test run on my changes to the algorithm.” His face beamed. “Thank you.”

Andrew’s doctoral studies used computers to perform detailed research traditionally done by historians and doctoral students. One day, that program he wrote would likely replace those researchers with keyboards and mice—the electronic kind, not the crumb snatchers. You know, like self-checkout machines at the grocery store. You do all the work, and they charge you the same price. Then, they’ll fire five clerks who the machines replaced. Great plan, Andy. I wonder how many historians you’ll replace with your gadgets.

“Thank you, Andrew.” Her cell rang, and she took the call. “Professor Tucker.” The caller had Angel’s complete attention. I knew that because she jotted some notes and checked her watch twice—all the while continuing to ignore me. So, it must have been really important, right? “Yes, of course. I’ll be right up.”

“Professor Tucker?” Andrew asked.

She glanced over at Andrew as she tapped off the call. “We’re done for the day, Andrew.”

“Is something wrong?” he asked. “I can help.”

“No, it’s fine. I have to meet someone up in the rotunda. We’ll start again in the morning.” She began straightening her papers and stuffing files into her worn, leather briefcase.

“Who?” he asked.

I said, “Never you mind, sonny-boy. You work for her, not the other way around.” I winked at Angel. “Millennials, right?”

She hefted her briefcase. “Something to do with our Apple Harvest research.”

“Okay.” He glanced at the crates of research. “Want me to gather up your research and get it to your car? There’s an awful lot here.”

“Actually, yes. If you don’t mind.” She gave him the keypad code for her Explorer. “Leave my briefcase and the files beside it here. The rest can go in my vehicle. Please make sure it’s locked when you’re done. Thank you.”

“Sure thing, Professor Tucker.” His face lit up. “See you in the morning.”

I followed Angel through the Stewart Bell Jr. Archive Room, into the Lower Lobby, and up the stairs toward the main library entrance.

“I don’t like him, Angel. He’s shifty.”

“Shifty, Tuck?” Finally, she acknowledged me. I wore her down. “No one says ‘shifty’ anymore.”

“It’s coming back in style.”

She grinned and whispered, “Is that your detective-senses talking or because he stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking?”

“He doesn’t stare. He ogles.”

“Yes, he ogles.”

“I can get Bear to check him—”

“No, Tuck. He’s fine. I don’t like it when you’re jealous.”

Me, jealous? No. It was purely a professional irritation I felt whenever Andy was around. Truly.

We reached the first-floor hall that led into the main library rooms. There, she made her way into the rotunda at the library entrance. She stopped beside a high-back wood bench where Library Lil—the bronze statue of a young girl reading a book—sat.

A tall, thin man about thirty stepped out of one of the meeting rooms along the west hallway. He glanced around before he headed our way. He wore dark slacks and a dark sport jacket over a white, button-down dress shirt that was untucked in that new-millennial style, and penny-loafers. He strode to us and looked around his entire trip.

“That must be Special Agent Kerns with the DOD,” Angel whispered. “He called just now.”

A fed? Interested in her research? I asked her that.

“I don’t know. He said it was about my Apple Harvest research and that it was classified. Go wait somewhere.”

“I am somewhere. I’m here.”

She gave me the evil eye, so I meandered to a bench nearby.

As Kerns approached, fingers began dancing up my spine—hot, pointy fingers. I didn’t like those fingers. Every time they did the mambo up my vertebrae, something bad happened in the next few beats.

Kerns reached Angel, proffered a hand, and said something with a serious, tight expression on his face. Then, he hooked a thumb toward the main entrance doors.

Angel shook his hand and smiled faintly, a sure sign she was unsure of him.

Those fingers reached the base of my brain and squeezed…

“Angel, get down!” I lunged forward and pulled her away from Kerns, down behind Library Lil’s bench.

Kerns stood there, frozen in an eerie mist. His arms shot out sideways, and he seemed to lift onto his toes. His face contorted into a stunned, painful grimace.

“Tuck?” Angel cried. “What’s happening to him?”

Hell if I knew.

Kerns’ entire body vibrated and shuddered. He staggered backward and collapsed onto the floor, writhing. The lights above us flickered wildly and went out. The original iron, brass, and blown-glass chandelier swayed dramatically two floors overhead. Its lights flickered and went dark.

When I glanced back at Kerns lying on the floor, I cringed.

Blood flowed from his ears, nose, and mouth. It seeped from his eye sockets, where his eyeballs looked like soft-boiled eggs stewing in their sockets. His hands and fingers were dark red and bony. His face and neck had oddly sunk, and his skin looked like it had been draped over his bones as though someone had sucked the tissue and muscle from beneath. He looked like he had melted inside.

The only thing left of him was his clothes and a spreading pool of goo.

Kerns was dead, sure enough. He’d been murdered, too, right in front of Angel and a dozen people. I knew no one had seen anything. No one heard anything. No one knew anything. Me included.

Well, that’s not true. I knew something. Special Agent Kerns didn’t die of a heart attack because of a poor diet. He wasn’t killed by a sniper with a silenced rifle, a knife-throwing ninja assassin, or by an Amazonian’s blow dart. He died of something else.

What killed him, I had no idea. But it scared the life out of me.

***

Excerpt from Dying With A Secret by Tj O'Connor. Copyright 2025 by Tj O'Connor. Reproduced with permission from Tj O'Connor. All rights reserved.