Chapter One

Marlowe “Lowe” Curran

Getting old is not for the meek. Especially when in your youth, you were an adventurer and risk taker—a man of mystery and worldliness. You know, stuff that made your heart rumba and your pulse sizzle. Having to perform menial, boring deeds in your later years is tough. Especially when you sit around with good bourbon and reminisce about the old days. You tend to drink too much and pine for those glory days and lost adventure. So much that it eats at you. Not that I’ve ever done that, mind you. Just saying, you know, it happens to other people.

For instance, if anyone had told me twenty years ago that one day I’d be standing outside an old, two-story brick Rambler in Leesburg, Virginia, at ten in the evening, wearing old, raggedy pajamas, an ill-fitting robe, and carrying a dog leash—absent the dog—I would have been offended. Such a scenario might have suggested I’d lost my faculties too early in life. Perhaps I’d gone crazy or became homeless. Of course, I’d never seen a homeless person wearing pajamas and a robe at ten in the evening, crazy or not. Still, you get my concern.

I’m Curran. That’s Ker-in, not Kuur-an. It’s Irish—not that it matters. But pronunciation is important.

Don’t get the wrong idea about me. I don’t normally dress up in old pjs and walk neighborhoods with a dog leash. It just seemed like the thing to do tonight. I’m also not that damn old, either. At present, I’m pushing my early-mid-fifties and have a full head of dark, reddish hair, and almost always in need of a shave. It’s not that I’m trying to be suave and cool. I’m sorta lazy about shaving. I’ve been told I look like the dashing Sean Bean. No, not Mr. Bean—Sean Bean. Anyway, that’s me and I’ll explain more later. For now, my pjs were falling down and the ratty robe I had on wasn’t fitting all too well, either.

My feet were sore from my ambling down a block of crumbling sidewalk in the middle of this beautiful August night. Of course, August in Virginia was hot, humid, and, well, hot. My ensemble was cooler than jeans and sneakers, but it did not include slippers. Barefoot was not accidental. It’s for effect.

See, I was going for that crazy old dude persona.

Most concerning to me was my partner. Or lack thereof. Actually, he was my long-time friend and co-conspirator in many such episodes of my life. He’s missing. Stevie Keene should have been here an hour ago and running countersurveillance. He should have been watching my back and ensuring I wasn’t walking into a gunfight or a pair of handcuffs.

He wasn’t.

Stevie hadn’t responded to my cell calls. He also wasn’t in the van parked across the street from our target like he should be. That was bad. Real bad. I was going in blind.

“Stevie? Where in the flying monkeys are you?” I whispered to his voicemail again. “You’re late. I can’t wait any longer. If you get here while I’m inside, stay put and watch my escape route. And brother, you better have a good story—like being abducted by aliens.”

I peeked at the old Rambler’s front windows and dangled the dog leash. I called out as loud as I could, “Rufus? Come on boy. I’ve got cookies.”

No, I had no dog named Rufus. I also had no cookies. Try to keep up.

The house windows were blacked out—odd even for this part of town. I knew someone was inside. First, a thin sliver of light escaped through a corner of the window. Second, the electric meter around the side was whirling away like a NASA satellite station. Third, and perhaps most important, I’d seen the short, pudgy, receding hairline kid with his embarrassing attempt at a beard slip inside an hour or so ago. He looked like he’d glued stray hair here and there on his cheeks. His eyes were inset, or maybe his fat cheeks hid them.

Billy Piper reminded me of that dumpy loser who tried to smuggle dinosaur eggs off the island in Jurassic Park. He got eaten in the first thirty minutes of the movie. Served him right—poor defenseless dinosaurs.

“Rufus? I’ve got cookies.” I banged loudly on the door and rattled the doorknob. “Don’t hide on me, Rufus. Don’t be a bad dog.”

If Piper was trying to be stealthy, he failed. I heard him approach the door inside before he peeled back the window covering and glared out.

“What are you doing, old dude? Get lost.”

As I’ve already said, I’m not that old. But, given I’d put on a shaggy gray wig and plastered fake beard crap on my face, I give it to him.

A dog barked then yelped as the face pushed closer into the window. “Shut up, mutt. What good are you? This old fart is almost in the house and you just noticed?”

Time to play the role.

“You got my Rufus? Give me my dog.” I banged on the door again. “Now, before I call the cops. Dog napper.”

“It’s my dog, old dude,” Piper yelled. “Get off my property or I’ll kick your old ugly butt.”

I held up the leash and took a step back, turned in a slow circle to appear dazed. Then, I began to cry. It took nearly a full minute before Piper opened the door and stepped cautiously outside.

“What the hell is wrong with you, old dude? My dog isn’t Rufus.”

I turned to him, reached up to wipe my tearless eyes, and let my bright red identification bracelet show below my pajama sleeve.

“Where am I? Who’s Rufus?” I turned in a circle again and let a few more whimpers out. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”

At first, Piper turned red-faced with anger. Then, when he saw my medical bracelet, he reached out and grabbed it. “Oh, you’re one of those Alzheimer’s people. Get the hell out of here. Understand? Go home. Shoo.”

Home, indeed. “This is my home. What are you doing here?”

Beside Piper, a brawny black lab trotted into the doorway and barked. Not a threatening bark. More like an obligatory “woof.” After two such woofs, he trotted up to me and sat wagging.

“Useless dog. What are you doing inside?” He grabbed the dog by the collar and dragged him past me. He shook him several times, cursing. After berating him again with another smack to his hindquarters, he found a short chain affixed to a big walnut tree in the front yard and clipped it on his collar. “Flippin’ mutt. You’re supposed to warn me before they get to the door.”

“Don’t hurt my Rufus,” I yelled.

The chain was twisted and wrapped around the tree. The lab only had about two feet of room to move. There was no water bowl and no signs of one anywhere. The wear marks on the grass suggested the dog spent too much time chained to that tree.

What an asshole.

“What are you doing to my Rufus?” I growled. “Where’s his food and water?”

“Screw the dog. Maybe now he’ll bark when he’s supposed to.” Piper shoved me sideways and reentered the house. “Get the hell out of here or I’ll call the cops.”

“Call? I didn’t call you.”

“Jesus, I don’t have time for this.” He squared off on me in the doorway. “Get lost, old dude.”

“What about my Rufus?” I shoved Piper back a step. That surprised him. I guess old men with Alzheimer’s should be weak and defenseless. “Get out of my house.”

Piper reared back to strike me and held his fist in a threat. “I’m gonna put you straight.” His smartwatch buzzed wildly and flashed like Dick Tracey was calling. If you don’t get the shout out to Dick, forget it. You’re way too young to understand. “Go dammit.”

“Not until I get my Rufus.”

His watch signaled him again.

“Ah, shit. No. No. No.” Piper shoved me sideways and I feigned a fall just inside the doorway. He kicked at me and barely connected as I parried with my arm. “Get outta here, old dude. Wander or doddle your way back where you came. I got my own problems.” He shoved me out the doorway, swung the door to shut it, and ran down the hallway.

I, not being a confused old geezer, lodged my foot in the door before it closed. With no more than a sore big toe when it hit, I kept the door ajar.

I followed his footfalls to the back of the house. I might be committing a few felonies soon, so I slipped on leather driving gloves to eliminate the chance of any fingerprints. After all, my felony count had just started and the night was young.

I know cool TV stuff like that.

At the end of the hall, I descended the stairs into a dark basement. There, a small room lay ahead, lighted by a single overhead light that bathed the room in a hazy illumination. There were only a few old boxes stacked around and a bicycle hanging on a wall rack. Ahead was a heavy, steel door, still ajar. A carnival of flickering lights escaped through the opening. Beyond, I heard Piper cursing and babbling in a panicked voice.

I eased inside and found a larger section of the basement. The space was lined with soundproof tiles and heavy industrial carpeting. There was a refrigerator and small stove on one side of the room, and cabinets of computers and electronics on the other. Between them was a command console and two gamer’s chairs facing a wall of computer monitors and large video screens. The walls not blocked by computer gadgets were covered with movie and book posters of every major spy thriller I’d ever heard of. One was a poster of a pale-faced Alec Guinness wearing oversized, dark-framed glasses—an aged, probably original collector’s poster of John Le Carre’s Smiley’s People.

Holy crap, Billy Piper was a wannabe spy.

“Shit, they caught me.” Piper stood in front of a shelf of electronics and spun around when I stepped inside. “What the hell, old dude?”

We had to talk about that old dude thing. I was getting there, but really, how rude?

“I told you what would happen if you didn’t leave.” Piper balled his fist and came toward me. “It’s gonna cost you. You should’ve left to find Rufus.”

“Who the hell is Rufus?” I asked.

I don’t know if it was my sudden calm, steady voice, or the silenced .22 pistol in my hand—aimed at him—that startled him the most. Either way, I had his attention.

“What the … who are you, old dude?” He stared at the pistol. “You don’t have Alzheimer’s.”

“Nope.”

“Who then?” He took a step back as his face tightened and filled with so much anger his cheeks were ablaze. “Ah, shit. Are you with them?”

“Them?” I waived my pistol back and forth to keep his attention. “Explain.”

“Screw you.” He spun around as his computers began wailing some kind of alarm. “Come on man, I got bigger problems than anything you can bring. If you don’t get outta here, those problems are going to be yours, too. Go find Rufus or whatever. Get out.”

I aimed the pistol at his head. “I think not, Billy.”

He spun back around at me. “You know me? Did they send you?”

“Oh, I know you.” Boy was he slow. “I’m here about money and information. I have no idea who ‘they” are. Although, ‘they’ might be like my clients. You hacked them and now they want their files and money returned. Right, Chip Magnet?”

“Oh, man. You are them.” His face blanched and the tough guy drained away. “Dude, I got money. I can pay. I pay you and you say I wasn’t home. Deal?”

Desperation replaced his bravado he’d taunted me with moments ago. “Chip Magnet, are you for real? What a totally bullshit handle, Piper.”

He shrugged. “It means—”

“I know what it means, idiot. Look, Billy, you hacked the wrong people—my people. I’m here to fix things. And in the future—if you have one—you might take care who you hack. Some folks out there don’t go to the police. They don’t hire lawyers or call the credit bureau.”

“Huh?” His eyes locked on my pistol as it raised to eye level. “What?”

“They send me.”

Chapter Two

U.C.

The man in the expensive Saville Row suit and Gucci loafers sipped his vodka martini and settled back on his king bed, pillows plumped and perfectly positioned by the staff. He glanced around his Waldorf Astoria suite feeling very pleased with himself. Never had his accommodation been as nice. Never had his payment been as nice—nor as often—as with this assignment. He wondered how long it would be before it would all end.

The man wore a collarless shirt that fit snug over ripped muscles. His head was mostly bald but for close-cut, thinning dark hair around the sides and back. His face was narrow and strong, accentuated by a salt and pepper beard that was three days of growth meticulously trimmed for effect—a dangerous, stay-clear effect. In the years he’d operated at the higher end of his profession, he found his persona and image as daunting to his prey as his skills. The million-dollar benefactors he serviced expected a little refinement and image, not to be confused with Hollywood assassins cloaked in black leather feigning brooding personalities. His clients demanded thoughtfulness, the ability to move in any surroundings—Washington dinner clubs or Bangkok brothels.

U.C. had mastered the chameleon persona years before.

The satellite phone on his nightstand vibrated. He scooped it up. The Controller didn’t like to wait. Not for the million-dollar price tag for U.C.’s services. Glancing at the screen, the call wasn’t from the Controller, but one of the minions sitting in a lesser hotel room somewhere in the bowels of Alexandria, Virginia.

“Yes?”

The voice was frantic. “U.C., I found him. There’s a problem.”

“Problem?” U.C.—bestowed upon him many years prior because of his preference to operate against his targets Up Close—sipped his drink. “If you found the target trying to hack our servers, just send me the address and—”

“He got through.”

“What?” U.C. bolted upright and spilled his drink. “You told me the security was impenetrable.”

Silence.

“Well?”

“Someone left some nodes insecure, maybe. I don’t know.”

U.C.’s mind raced. “An inside job?”

“Maybe.”

He closed his eyes. “Sweet Jesus.”

“U.C.?” The caller hesitated. “The hacker got all the way into the E-Suite.”

He was on his feet now, moving around the room gathering his things—the most important ones—his shoulder bag, jacket, and silenced pistol.

“Did you hear me?”

U.C. grunted, “Text me the address. Get four men there fast. I’ll meet you there.”

Hesitation, then, “Orders?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

U.C. tapped off the call and instantly activated the satellite text program. As he did, the Sat phone concurrently launched an encryption program that NSA would take years to break—another luxury of working for the Controller.

He typed out a simple message—Urgent. Hack successful. Compromised. I’ll contain.

Miles away, across the Potomac, the Sat Text arrived at the Controller’s private office. It took only moments to return a response.

U.C. rarely initiated such calls. Rarely one marked with “Urgent.”

The Controller—Define compromise.

U.C.—Total.

The Controller—Confidence?

U.C. finished his text and exited his suite—Whisper is compromised.

***

Excerpt from The Whisper Legacy by Tj O'Connor. Copyright 2025 by Tj O'Connor. Reproduced with permission from Tj O'Connor. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

Nicholas Bishop named the one-eyed dog Jake even though she was female. Jake seemed like a good name for a pup missing an eye. He couldn’t remember where the mutt had come from. When he awoke on the floor of his room at The Lafayette Hotel, she sat close by, giving him a single eye stare. Strong odds said he stole the dog. She didn’t weigh much, maybe ten pounds, easy enough to scoop under his arm as he staggered home.

He struggled to a sitting position and waited for the room to stop teetering. Vertebrae ground together as he rolled his head, hoping that would end the pounding between his ears. It didn’t. He massaged his closed eyelids. The corneas felt swollen beneath his fingertips. Jake watched all this, never once taking her eye off him.

Bishop took inventory when the world righted itself. Rubbing his chin, whiskers whispered against palm. He tried to guess how long it’d been since he’d shaved. Two days? Three? His shirt cuff was dirty and frayed. He pushed it higher on his arm. The Bulova was still on his wrist, the crystal cracked, hands frozen at 2:30. His pewter-handled cane was on the floor next to an empty bottle of Four Roses. The pain in his right foot stabbed sharper than usual. He wondered if it would swell when he unlaced his shoe. No memory of reinjuring it came to him. He patted his suitcoat and felt his wallet in the inside pocket and the .38 Detective Special holstered near his heart. The wallet was empty. There were four slugs in the snub nose. Not six. He sniffed. It had been fired.

He crawled to bed and pulled himself on the mattress, not bothering with his clothes. Jake hopped up, circled twice, then settled by the footboard, keeping her eye on Bishop as if her doubts about him were increasing now that he was conscious.

Memories were slivered as he tried to recall when he had fired the gun:

Day drinking at the Kitty Kat.

The revolving bar at The Chez Ami.

Perfume.

A blonde.

A car ride.

No recollections about a one-eyed dog or gunshots.

He checked the .38 again. Who had he fired at? Had he hit them? Killed them?

The ringing phone was an ice pick to his ear. The only way to stop the pain was by answering.

“Hello,” Bishop said, his voice raspy.

“Coppers.”

It took a heartbeat for the desk clerk’s voice to register. The line died. When it did, Bishop slammed the receiver into its cradle and swung his legs to the floor. The world again tottered. He swallowed bile until his swollen eyes teared. His damaged foot bore weight but each metatarsal sent ripples of agony with each step. He retrieved his cane and hat from the floor without toppling, something he considered miraculous, and felt grateful to the angel or demon in charge of keeping crippled detectives upright.

The hallway was deserted. He limped to the stairwell before the elevator full of cops arrived at his floor. Bishop didn’t mind talking to the police, but he wanted to know what they were after before he did, certain it had nothing to do with a stolen dog but everything to do with two fired slugs. Guilt, thick and dark, oozed through him but he couldn’t tell if it was old remorse or something new, heavier.

It was slow going down the stairs. He couldn’t outrace the fattest cop, not with his 4-F foot. He gripped the railing and leaned on the cane as he eased down each step, moving like a man much older than thirty. Jake waited on the landing, tilting her head as if to listen for shouts or thunderous feet descending from the floors above. There were none.

Was Buffalo’s Finest tossing his room, rifling through drawers, pulling suits from hangers, checking pockets for…what? His gun? He wished he could walk into The Allendale Theater, buy a nickel bag of popcorn, and watch the last few days of his life projected on the silver screen, certain it would be more informative than any newsreel.

When he reached the ground floor, he pushed open the fire exit and was blinded by sunshine reflected off the sidewalk and car fenders.

So, it’s afternoon, he thought. But was it Monday or Tuesday? Bishop raised his hand to shield his eyes. He didn’t see his Packard anywhere.

Benny The Junk Man stood by the hotel’s dented garbage cans. His cart was loaded with the day’s salvaged items—bundled rags, andirons, dresses, blouses. The clothing looked newer and of better quality than what Benny usually found. Bishop wondered if they’d been pulled from clotheslines. Unlike the mean drunks and meaner children who tormented him, Bishop knew Benny wasn’t stupid. He’d left the best part of himself in the Argonne still fighting that battle two decades later. He spent his days pushing his cart through the streets, crisscrossing Buffalo, searching for discarded treasures. His body passed through alleys rummaging for things to pawn, but what remained of his mind was mired in that burning forest surrounded by the dead and dying. Still, Benny sometimes saw and heard things that were real:

A woman got her purse snatched on Genesee Street.

There was a new girl, a real doll face, working at the Michigan Avenue brothel.

A big card game was going on above The New Genesee Restaurant.

He would whisper these truths to Bishop, and the shamus would pay for the information—a quarter, fifty cents, maybe a buck—even if it had nothing to do with the case he was working. Other times Bishop asked him to keep an eye out for a certain car or dame—nobody paid attention to a junk man lingering on a corner, just like no one had paid attention to a fifteen-year-old Bishop when he’d started working the streets. The information that Benny provided that was relevant to Bishop’s investigation was worth a fin or more—a fortune to a rag collector. Benny was still the good soldier, putting the mission first, and most times getting information the gimpy detective needed. Jake sniffed the junk man’s unlaced army boots.

“Benny, what do you know? What do you hear?”

Benny turned from the garbage pails and squinted as if trying to pick Bishop out of a crowd of gathering ghosts. Recognition registered in stages from the top down—brow wrinkled, eyes widened, mouth curved to a smile. “I didn’t know you had a dog, Bishop.”

“You see her, too?”

The junk man wasn’t sure how to answer.

“Have you seen my car, Benny? The Packard?”

“Your car?”

“The green convertible.”

Benny looked around the hotel alleyway and down Ellicott Street. “There’s no green car here, Bishop.”

“Keep your eyes open for it, all right? You know which one it is, don’t you? Let me know if you spot it.”

“You think someone stole your green car?”

“It’s probably parked in front of The Kitty Kat or The Chez. Hopefully, it’s not in a ditch somewhere.”

“Why would you leave your car in a ditch, Bishop?”

“For safekeeping,” Bishop said. “Say, you hear anything about a shooting or why the cops are looking for me?”

“I haven’t heard about those things.”

“Okay, maybe it’s nothing. But if you hear something or find my car, you come tell me. If I’m not here, leave a message with Corbett at the front desk.”

Benny saluted, his hand slicing the air as sharp as it had in 1918.

“Good man. Carry on,” Bishop said, and the junk man resumed rummaging through the garbage pails.

It was a four-block limp to The Kitty Kat to hunt for his car. Bishop wasn’t sure he could make it. He was considering sticking out his thumb when Lieutenant Darcy rounded the corner. His face, flushed pink from the heat, broke into a wide grin when he saw Bishop.

“Rats are always in alleys, but I found a weasel. You think you can outrun the law with that crippled foot, Bishop?”

“I’m not running, Lieutenant. I’m walking my dog.”

“That’s a dog? It’s in worse shape than you.”

“Me and Jake aren’t morning people.”

“Morning people? The day’s half done, Bishop.”

“Time flies.”

“Not in prison it don’t. Which is where you’re headed, draft dodger.”

Bishop winced and hoped it didn’t show. “Is sleeping late a crime?”

“No, but murder is. What do you know about Pearl DuGaye, smart guy?”

“Never heard of heard of her. Who is she?”

“A singer from The Chez Ami gone missing. We found her purse not far from here. Cleaned out, of course, except for one thing.”

“Trolley fare?”

“Your business card.” Darcy pulled out the card and read, “Bishop Investigations. Civil. Criminal. Missing Persons Located. Licensed and Bonded. Who the hell would bond a coward like you?”

Bishop took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “When did this DuGaye woman go missing?”

“Saturday.”

“What’s today?”

“Thursday.”

Jesus.

Darcy wiped his face with a handkerchief. “Funny you never heard of her. Not only was your card in her purse, I got a revolving bar full of people at The Chez Ami who saw you two together. They say you weren’t exactly acting like brother and sister.”

“You ever seen my sister, Lieutenant? She’s a looker.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you. I wouldn’t put anything past a guy who sticks his foot in front of a moving taxi to keep out of the army. Were you working for DuGaye or just working her?”

“I honestly can’t say, Lieutenant,” Bishop said, and wondered if she was blonde.

“If she hired you to protect her, it looks like you did your usual swell job. Speaking of which, how’s business?”

“It pays the light bill.”

“Not at your office it don’t. Heard you had to close that down. Got rid of that good-looking secretary, too. Lucky Teddy Thurston must be rolling in his grave.”

“I work out of The Lafayette now. Teddy would be fine with that.”

“The hell he would. Only whores work out of hotels. Funny how business dried up on you. I guess folks who lost husbands and sons on December seventh and at Bataan don’t want to hire a chicken-shit Jap lover. Makes me wonder why DuGaye hired you. She must be as shady as Fat Ira. I read you work for him these days.”

“I hear you work for Joey Bones. Have been for a long time.”

Darcy took a step forward and jabbed a finger at Bishop. “Listen, you crippled shit. If this Pearl DuGaye shows up dead, I’m pinning it on you. I got a nice frame already picked out.”

“Pleasure talking to you, Lieutenant, but I’m late for an appointment.”

“With which bottle?”

“Say hello to Joey for me.”

“Watch out for taxis, weasel. Wouldn’t want you to have two crippled feet.”

Bishop caned his way down Ellicott as Jake trotted ahead. The sun was hot on his neck. He could smell bourbon seeping through his pores. His stomach cramped and he wondered when he’d last eaten, uncertain he could keep anything down if he ate now. Guilt weighed on him, its cause remained unclear.

***

Excerpt from After Pearl by Stephen G. Eoannou. Copyright 2025 by Stephen G. Eoannou. Reproduced with permission from Stephen G. Eoannou. All rights reserved.

After leaving Oliver, I decided to speak to the marina owner one more time to try to figure out who took the boat used in Henry’s murder. Grabbing a sandwich at my apartment, I called Ben to see if he would like to go along with me. He was covering court this week for a reporter on vacation, so I was lucky to catch him at his desk.

“Yes, I’d love to go with you, and as luck would have it, the judge rescheduled the court case.”

Even though some people might think a reporter’s life is glamorous and full of intrigue, Ben was covering a case of stolen pigs for The Camden Courier. Shorty Wyckoff, a pig farmer, claimed Bill Wheeler, another pig farmer, snuck up in the cloak of darkness and loaded up an 1100-pound sow into the back of a pickup truck. What made her so valuable was her nickname, Fertile Myrtle. It was reported that she could get pregnant with only one try, and the results were dozens of little piggies. The newspaper had dubbed the case “Makin’ Bacon Caper.” It was a popular series of articles, considering it was one step up from the farm report and featured the sex lives of pigs.

“I’ll pick you up, but I have to warn you, ol’ Bernice isn’t doing too well. I think she’s on her last breath.”

“Ol’ Bernice, a 1955 Oldsmobile, had several dents, bald tires, and a constant wheezing coming out from under the rusty brown hood. “Should we take my car?”

“Nice of you to offer, but I want to take Bernice today. I have plans for her.”

Besides setting her on fire or pushing her off the nearest cliff, I wasn’t sure what he had in mind. I knew Ben had arrived when I heard the familiar wheezing and sputtering of Bernice in my driveway.

Ben and I returned to the marina, but this time the marina owner was nowhere to be found. The marina office and residence stood atop a small hill overlooking the glistening waters of the bay. Selma, the guard dog Shep had praised, did not bark or even growl, but playfully nudged her snout against my hand, her tail wagging vigorously in excitement. We knocked on the glass panes of the marina office, and after not getting an answer, I clasped my hands around my eyes and, leaning on the glass, looked inside. As I drew closer, I could hear the low rumble of jazz, heavy on the bass. It created a melodic backdrop with the gentle lapping of the waves. “I think he must be farther back in the house. I hear a stereo.”

Ben put his ear to the glass and then turned around to face the parking lot. “Hmmm. How many cars do you see parked here?”

I turned back and scanned the parking area. “Three.”

“Right. Ours, his, and whose is that?” He pointed at a wood-paneled station wagon. It was the kind of car a family with children would use.

“I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone else around here. Maybe someone has taken their boat out.”

“Maybe, but when we were here last, there were twelve boats in twelve boat slips. Today I only see eleven. Considering Bubba Jenkins’s boat - was just impounded for a murder investigation. I would say all the remaining boats are here.”

“Which means whoever is driving that station wagon is inside, listening to jazz with Shep. Let’s try knocking at the backdoor,” I said.

We made our way around, and as we did, the sound of the music grew louder, along with a few other sounds.

Ben smiled and blushed a little as we heard rhythmic moans coming from an open window. “They must be big music lovers.”

I giggled. “Regular jazz nuts.” There was no doubt about what they were doing, and from the sounds of it, things were going quite well.

Ben raised his hand to knock, but then stopped. “Not the best time.”

“Yeah. Maybe we can figure this out on our own. I don’t think I could erase a memory of hot and sweaty Shep, but I am curious about who he has in there with him.”

“Let’s go look at the boats.” We walked around the house to the parking lot. Selma followed along, her tail still wagging. As the jazz and the sound of other things faded in my ears, I asked Ben, “What exactly are we looking for?”

“I’m not sure, just something out of the ordinary. Maybe Henry’s killer left something important on the dock.”

“You mean like his I. D.? That would make things easier. Do you know a lot about boats? We didn’t do much boating at our house, although I have been waterskiing with friends.”

“A little.” He shrugged. “Not much. We need to concentrate, and hearing about you in a bathing suit is not making my thoughts flow.”

I giggled. “Billie Holiday will do that to a person.”

We walked on the wooden pier as the surrounding water was still. There was little call to take a boat out on a weekday. The boats were in a variety of sizes, but most were small speedboats, with a pontoon moored at the end. Inside a few boats, there were remnants of beer bottles and sandwich wrappers.

“Not very tidy, these boat people, and from the looks of the empty beer bottles, there are several drunk drivers out on the lake at the same time. No wonder Betty Weaver got hit,” I said, walking to the end of the pier. The pontoon was covered with a canvas drape. Looking underneath, the insides were as neat as a pin.

“Look at this,” Ben said, crouched down by the tip of a small speedboat. “It looks like they’ve sustained some damage here.”

On the side of the boat, a scrape had cut through the sleek paint, making a line through the boat name, Lucky Me. Not as lucky as the boat owner might have thought.

“So, somebody isn’t very good at putting the boat back into the dock. I hardly think that has anything to do with boat thefts.”

Ben nodded. “You’re probably right, but we know there has been a boat thief out here. What’s to say this person only used one boat?”

“You mean like a serial boat thief?” Could a person get away with stealing different boats periodically from the marina? Was starting one boat as easy as starting another?

“Think about it,” Ben said. “Just how many days a week are Romeo and Juliet in there playing Billie Holiday on the stereo?”

The boat dock was at least fifty yards from the combined house and office. Someone could be out here starting a boat, and if the marina owner was busy, he would hear nothing. “He wouldn’t hear it, and Selma, the guard dog, gets put outside on occasions, so happy for a visitor, she doesn’t even bark.”

Ben snapped his fingers. “Bubba Jenkins is Al’s friend, right? We need to talk to him. He might be sitting on information.”

“You know, Al has mentioned him, but I’m not sure what he does.”

“Then we’ll have to ask him.”

As we turned to head back to Ben’s car, the sound of a screen door opening peeled through the air. Shep, his cheeks rosy and his shirt half on, edged around from the back of the house and immediately spotted Ben’s car. His gaze shifted to the dock.

“Can I help you, folks? How long have you been standing out here?”

I walked forward. “We tried knocking, but there was no answer.”

“Yes, you must have been busy,” Ben said.

Shep lifted his chin slightly. “Working on the books. Guess I got involved. Numbers are not my thing.”

We knew just what his thing was.

Ben walked forward and extended his hand. “Ben Dalton, Camden Courier.”

Shep reached out with a measured amount of enthusiasm. “I remember you. What can I do for you this time?”

“We were wondering if you could provide a list of the boat owners here at the marina. I would also like to get in touch with Bubba Jenkins. Ben said this with such efficiency. Shep let go of his hand and stepped back.

“Why would I do that?”

Ben swept his hand back toward the boats. “In the interest of the investigation. Two deaths on the water don’t exactly put the security of your marina in a good light.”

Shep raised a single finger in the air and shook it at Ben’s face. “Lookie here, son. If I hand over a list like that, it will be to the police, and only the police will get it. Hear me? You and your lady friend need to quit nosin’ around here. If I see you again, I’ll call the cops on you for trespassing. Get me?”

“This is public property. There’s not much you can do.”

“Watch me.”

“You seemed more than willing to let people nose around and steal other people’s boats. I think you’re a little late with your righteous indignation,” I said.

“Yeah, well, a tiger can change its spots. I don’t need a lot of folks here getting into my business.” He glanced up at the house. “Talking to you has been a mistake, and now I’m fixing it. Out with you.”

As we made our way to the car, Ben turned and spoke. “We’re leaving, but remember, if you ever want to talk…”

“Out!”

***

Excerpt from I Can't Get No Satisfaction by Teresa Trent. Copyright 2025 by Teresa Trent. Reproduced with permission from Teresa Trent. All rights reserved.

“Is that music playing in your office? You never listen to music at work?”

“I do on rare occasions.”

“That’s Alice Merton. How are you even aware of her music?” Erica asks, gobsmacked.

“I’m not, but I met Detective Torres at a Starbucks this morning and it was playing, and I liked it. I asked a Gen Z barista who the artist was and played it when I got in,” James says.

“I’m in shock.”

“I’m evolving,” James says, his words interrupted by the playing of the Johnny Rivers hit “Secret Agent Man” from his cell phone. “Alexa, off. Tim, hi, thanks for calling back. Erica is here with some information to share.”

“Hi, Erica. What’s going on?” Tim says.

“After we left the jail today, I went back to the office to work, and a few minutes ago, Belmonte called me to tell me that the DEA had been quote, ‘Requested,’ end quote to refrain from investigating or prosecuting Javier and that Javier was being moved to a different facility. Belmonte said the directive apparently came from the DNI. He called me from a burner phone and suggested we keep the circle of information as small as possible,” Erica explains.

“Holy crap,” Tim says.

“Any idea who could have that kind of juice?” James asks.

“None in particular,” Tim says.

“You didn’t tell anyone about meeting Javier?” Erica asks.

“Of course not,” Tim replies.

“Then how did anyone—” Erica begins.

“I have no idea,” Tim interrupts.

“One thing seems certain,” James says. “Aguilar was spot on. It is bigger than we knew.”

***

Excerpt from Chapter 24 of Someone Had to Lie by Jack Luellen. Copyright 2025 by Jack Luellen. Reproduced with permission from Jack Luellen. All rights reserved.