You Do What You Have To - 10

 

 

Olivia frowned. "If you were followed, why didn't he kill Micky too? The shooter would have known he was in the house with you."

 

"Ergo, we weren't followed." Darren rubbed his temple, wincing when it pulled on his head wound. "A spy?" He stared hard at Olivia.

 

"As much as I hate the idea, you know as well as I do that's always a possibility. Okay, let's get you out of here. Are you sure you want to go back to your place?"

 

"You know it's secure ten ways to tomorrow. I'll be fine there. Besides"—he looked down at his bare feet—"I need shoes. And my real ID, since I think we can presume my other identity is blown now."

 

"No shit," Olivia muttered. "If the shooter's the one who took your wallet, is there something in there he'd wanted?"

 

"Yeah, the list of Mackenzie's contacts we needed. People Mackenzie would rather not have anyone know he was connected with. That's why I was at the bar in the first place, to meet up with one of them."

 

"How did you get the list?"

 

"Damn, woman, don't you ever read the emails I send you?" He laughed when she gave him the finger. "I got friendly with one of Mackenzie's boy toys I met at the bastard's nightclub. Not that friendly, by the way. We just talked several times until I had his confidence—which I got when I commiserated with him. Apparently Mackenzie is into heavy-duty BDSM and sometimes forgets when to stop. Two weeks ago I ran into the kid again, at the club. He was hurting and pissed and looking for some way to get back at Mackenzie. He said he knew about some people Mackenzie dealt with on the QT, as he put it. I managed to play him well enough that he wrote the names down for me. "

 

"Then you contacted one of the people and?"

 

"Set up the meeting at the bar. He didn't show. I picked up Micky and the rest you know."

 

"Twenty-to-one this kid regretted opening up to you and told Mackenzie what he did."

 

"That would be my guess, now that you mention it." Darren got up. "Shall we get out of here? I'm ready to go home."

 

Olivia sighed. "Let's go."

 

* * * *

 

"What do you mean you can't find them?" Mackenzie said angrily.

 

"Freeman must have had someone come get him after he was shot. Either that or he finally died from his wounds. If that's the case, no one has reported finding the body," Harley, Mackenzie's enforcer, replied. "As for the guy the wallet belongs to? Michael Payne? So far, nothing. I've got men staking out the address listed on his state ID. He hasn't shown up there."

 

"You have to do better than that," Mackenzie barked out. "Before he finds the list of names Johnny admitted giving Freeman." He almost smiled, wondering how Johnny was enjoying his new "job" at a whore in a house in Bangkok—his "reward" for talking out of turn.

 

"Mac, even if he has found the list, he won't know what it means."

 

"Are you willing to bet on it? For all we know, he was working with Freeman. He could have taken the wallet, knowing what it contained."

 

"I…suppose," Harley said doubtfully. "But if he was, why didn't he show his face and return the favor, when Cal shot Freeman? No, my bet is he was just a casual pickup. He waited until Cal left, grabbed his clothes and ran. Cal said there were clothes on the floor and a chair. That's how he ended up with Payne's wallet instead of Freeman's. He had seconds to search their jeans. It was in one pair, nothing was in the other, so he grabbed it and split."

 

"Where do you dig up these idiots?" Mackenzie growled. "Never mind. Rhetorical question. Get out of here and find Michael Payne. Now! Get the list then kill him."

You Do What You Have To - 9

 

 

Darren nodded. "I need to find Micky."

 

"Talk about off topic. Not really. We'd all like to find the young man. Too bad you didn't get more than a first name."

 

"Tell me about it. God damn it!"

 

"Did he say anything at all about himself during your…dalliance?"

 

He snorted. "You are so polite. Let me think." He replayed everything that had happened from the moment he'd seen Micky at the bar. He'd noticed him because he’d stood out, with that strange shade of red-brown hair that he had tied back in a ponytail. "We talked a bit while watching guys on the dance floor, then we went to the bar." He drummed his fingers on the sheets. "Waiter. Yeah. He said he worked as a waiter, but not where, although he did say it was a nice place, if not 'classy', as he put it."

 

"Damn. There must be a million restaurants in the city," Olivia muttered. "Still, it's a start, presuming he gave you his real name."

 

"I'm pretty sure he did. He never hesitated to answer when I used it, the way most amateurs would if they didn't want to reveal who they really were."

 

"Okay, that helps, if he always goes by that. Micky is probably a nickname for Michael so it's fifty-fifty if he's called Micky at work."

 

"True. For now though"—he gave her a stern look—"you have to get me clothes. Okay?"

 

"Darren." She sighed. "Okay. Against my better judgment, and because knowing you, if I don't, you'll leave just the way you are, in your briefs, I'll do my best."

 

Olivia returned a few minutes later. "No shoes yet," she commented, laying the clothes on the bed. Eying Darren's head wound, she said, "You're going to stick out like a sore thumb."

 

"So I get a hat on my way home."

 

"By rights I should shackle you to the bed to keep you here for at least another day."

 

"Over my dead body," Darren muttered.

 

"It might be, if you reopen the wound because you do something stupid. However"—Olivia shook her head—"knowing the kind of man you are, that idea isn't going to stop you, so at least try to take things easy."

 

Moving carefully, Darren put on his jeans under Olivia's disapproving stare. Thankfully the shirt fit well enough to work. When he was dressed, he sat again, looking up at her. "Would you mind giving me a ride back to my place?"

 

"I presume you mean your real home, not the house."

 

"Yeah. I think we can get rid of the house now, since it's obvious it's been compromised. I'd sure as hell love to know how the shooter found me there."

 

"Best guess, he was at the bar, even though you didn't spot him."

 

"Probably, but I was watching for a tail. I always do."

 

"I'll bet you didn't scan for a tracker, given that you had—company."

 

"I did, actually. I told Micky to wait in the bar for a couple of minutes, which gave me time to do that." Darren chuckled. "From the look on his face, he was certain I was going to run out on him, but he didn't argue."

 

You Do What You Have To - 8

 

Darren woke to the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside his room. As he was in a private home, he knew he was safe. That didn't stop him from instinctively reaching for his gun. The one he didn't have, of course. It was still under the mattress in the bedroom at the house—or so he hoped. 

 

Since he was awake, he very carefully sat up, definitely favoring his right side, which was heavily bandaged. He touched his head, feeling bandages there as well. Moving slowly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, fighting off a wave of dizziness.

 

"Get it together," he muttered in disgust. "There's no way I'm going to stick around here any longer than necessary so…" He started to the bathroom, forcing his body to take the movements in stride. Yeah, the wound in his side and the resultant fractured rib weren't too happy about that, but his head felt fine.

 

He came out of the bathroom a few minutes later to find Olivia standing in the middle of the room, arms akimbo. She turned to look at him, almost snarling, "Why the hell are you up and moving without waiting for me to help you?"

 

"Because I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself," Darren replied acidly.

 

"In case you haven't noticed, it's only been a day and a half since you were shot. By rights, you shouldn't even be able to do anything more than sit up, if that, on your own. And here I find you wandering around…" She shook her head.

 

"Going to the john is hardly 'wandering', boss lady." He reached the bed and sat, doing his best to hide the fact he needed to. He must have succeeded, since she didn't say anything.

 

"How are you feeling?" Olivia asked.

 

"I've been better, but I've been a whole lot worse too. I should be ready to get out of here in…say…twenty minutes. I figure it'll take that long for you to being me my jeans and find a shirt—and hopefully shoes that will fit me."

 

"You're out of your fucking mind."

 

"And?" Darren grinned. "This is news?"

 

"No." She sighed. "Darren, please think about it? Someone wants you dead and you're in no shape to defend yourself if they try again."

 

"I'm aware of that. I don't plan on walking down the middle of Colfax saying 'Come and get me'." He changed the subject abruptly, asking, "Did Micky's body turn up in the morgue?"

 

"No. Or at least there isn't one that matches your description of him. I have feelers out, but so far he seems to have vanished. No one at the bar where you met him even remembers him."

 

"Yeah, well it was crowded, so that's not too surprising. Hopefully, if asked, they wouldn't remember me either."

 

She chuckled. "They didn't, but then you're good at being a nonentity."

 

"My stock in trade. When is the doc supposed to check up on me again? And what time is it?"

 

"Just going on nine," she replied after checking her watch. "And he isn't going to unless I call him."

 

You Do What You Have To - 7

 

 

Micky spent the rest of the day—after stocking up on what halfway edible snacks there were in the vending machines in the motel lobby—sitting on his bed munching on them while watching TV. He tracked every local newscast, uncertain if he was relieved or disappointed that there was no mention of someone attempting to kill Gary. He realized—again—that he should call work, but what could he tell them? That he'd be gone for the foreseeable future? His boss's response would be that he was fired. After all, Micky was just a waiter, albeit in a nice restaurant, and waiters were a dime a dozen.

 

By the time late afternoon rolled around, Micky was sick of crappy snacks and bored out of his mind.

 

"I need real food," he muttered. "And a new phone. One of those, what do they call them? Throwaways? And a few clothes would be nice."

 

He remembered, from the last time he'd stayed at the motel, there was a thrift shop somewhere close by. And the area was full of fast food joints as well. Figuring if someone was after him, it was still light enough out they wouldn't do anything drastic, he stuffed Gary's wallet in his pocket and took off—carefully, of course, checking the balcony and the parking lot again before scurrying, shoulders hunched, to the alley. He scuttled down it until he came to the last building, then cut across behind the building and two others, always alert for anyone who might be interested in him. Finally, clenching his hands, he eased down a cut-through to the street.

 

The thrift store was where he remembered. Trying to appear casual, he walked the half-block to it and was inside seconds later.

 

"Can I help you find something?" an older woman at the counter asked.

 

"Men's clothes?"

 

She pointed to the far side of the store. He discovered when he got there that there wasn't much to choose from. Still, he managed to find two pair of decent jeans, a couple of T-shirts, and a regular shirt. Then he spotted the sweatshirts. Going through them, he found a hooded one that would fit and added it to his pile. As he started to the counter, he saw underwear. While he wasn't exactly thrilled by the idea of wearing someone's cast-off briefs, he picked up three pair and some socks. The last thing he got was a backpack. When he paid for everything, he folded all the clothes except the hoodie, putting them in the pack. The hoodie he put on. Then, slinging the pack over his shoulders, he took off to find somewhere to eat, feeling marginally safer now.

 

As he passed a convenience store, he remembered he needed a new phone. He went in, found one that was cheap enough and didn't require a contract. Paying for it and a two hundred minute card, he pocketed it and moved on to the burger place two doors down.

 

While he stood surveying the menu on the board behind the counter, he wondered yet again if he was being overly paranoid. After all, if the guy somehow was able to track me by my old phone, wouldn't he have shown up long before now? I would have, if I was him. Take out the problem and move on. Obviously he has no compunction about killing someone—or trying to. Still, I'm not going back to my place until the end of the week, come hell or high water.

 

He was at the front of the line by then and ordered a burger, fries, and coffee. After picking up his order, he found a table and sat to eat. He realized as he did, whether from instinct or something else, he'd gone to one well away from the front windows. He chuckled softly. I'm turning into a superspy.

 

Finishing his meal, he stepped outside of the restaurant and saw it was beginning to get dark. That sent a shiver of fear up his spine. He stood where he was, trying to be covert as he looked at the people on the sidewalk. No one seemed to be paying any attention to him, so he stiffened his back and strode off, away from the direction of the motel. Just in case. Because who knows who could be watching that I'm not seeing.

 

Twenty minutes late, having taken a very circuitous route, he arrived back at his room. After unpacking the backpack and putting the clothes away, he settled on the bed, turned on the TV and found an old sitcom to watch.

You Do What You Have To - 6

 

 

"Would you have stuck around, if you were him?" Olivia asked. "He's there for a down and dirty fuck and gets caught in the middle of a gun battle. Speaking of which, where was your gun at the time?"

 

"Under the mattress. I managed to put it there while I was undressing, without Micky seeing me do it. Unfortunately I wasn't expecting extra company—or to be shot at. I didn't have time to reach for it, to say the least of using it."

 

"So presumably it's still there. That's good—unless the guy finally came back to see if he was successful. If he hung around until he thought it was safe and saw this Micky kid leaving, he could have followed him and taken him out, just in case."

 

"Are there any reports of people being shot and killed last night?"

 

"Night before last," Olivia said.

 

"You're kidding. I've been here twenty-four hours, give or take?"

 

"You were wounded, and by the time I found you, close to bleeding out, so yeah. Consider yourself lucky you awoke as soon as you did. The doc said it could take forty-eight hours." She grinned. "Guess your head is even harder than I thought. And to answer your question, this is Denver. Of course there were a few shootings. What does Micky look like?"

 

"Reddish-brown hair, long enough that he had it tied back. Well-built, if thin, umm, hazel eyes bordering on green. No scars or other identifying marks."

 

Olivia chuckled dryly. "And you'd know, having seen him in the buff. Let me call my contact at the morgue and check."

 

While she did that, Darren looked at the items on the table next to the bed. His phone was there, as were his keys and… "Where the hell's my wallet?" he asked as soon as Olivia hung up.

 

"You tell me. It wasn't on you when I found you, and it wasn't anywhere in the toolshed either. I backtracked to your place while I was waiting for Jax to get there and didn't see it."

 

"So it's either in the house, or the kid found it and took it."

 

"The latter I suspect, unless the shooter got it. I had Jax go to the house once we got you here and he said it wasn't there."

 

"Did he check for my gun?"

 

"Probably not, since he didn't know he was supposed to. There was no reason to think you'd have put either of them under the mattress, now was there?"

 

"Yeah, true. Last I remember, the wallet was in my jeans so it must have fallen out when I tossed them on the chair. Damn it. If Micky found it, he knows who I am."

 

"Who did he think you were?" Olivia asked.

 

"Just a guy called John."

 

She snorted. "Considering you picked him up at the bar, that sort of fits."

 

"I guess it does. Has his body turned up at the morgue?"

 

"Not so far, so either he's alive or his body is well hidden." She shook her head. "If he is alive, we have to find him. He just might have seen whoever shot you. It would be nice to know if it was one of Mackenzie's people or someone else."

 

Darren smiled wryly. "The list could be a long one if it wasn't one of his men."

 

"No kidding." She stood, looking down at him. "Get some more sleep, and don't even think about leaving until the doc gives his okay. Understood?"

 

"Yeah, I got it."

 

"Then remember it. I'd rather not have to come searching for you again because you passed out somewhere."

 

"I'm not too partial to that happening either, so I'll be a good boy—for now."

 

 

You Do What You Have To - 5

 

 

"How in God's name did they find you, Darren?"

 

Darren Walker, aka Gary Freeman, aka John, closed his eyes against the sudden intrusion of light and the tight, angry voice of the woman standing beside the bed.

 

"Hell if I know," he replied sourly, finally opening his eyes enough to look at her. "Thank for coming to get me, Olivia."

 

She smiled—almost. "That's what I'm here for. To get your ass out of trouble, among other things," she said sarcastically while she pulled up a chair and sat, looking at him.

 

"How bad are the damages?" he asked.

 

"According to the doc, you'll live. The bullet scored your skull, but didn't enter it, so more blood than real damage. He ran an MRI, and your brain looks good." She smiled sourly. "Well, as good as normal, which in your case isn't saying much." When he flipped her off, she shrugged. "Just calling it like I see it. On the other hand, the shot to your side went in and out, fracturing a rib, which deflected the bullet outward without damaging any internal organs. You're well dosed up on antibiotics and painkillers at the moment."

 

"Great," Darren replied sarcastically. "How long until I can get out of here?"

 

"You should know the answer to that. You've been shot before. Two days, a week? It depends how fast you heal. So"—she tapped her fingers together—"tell me what went down—in detail."

 

He frowned, trying to replay the night in his mind. "Okay. I went to the bar. It was slow, so half-empty. None of Mackenzie's men were there. Neither was the man I was supposed to be meeting. I hung around for a while, watching guys dance to give me something legit to do. This kid and I got to talking. Okay, not a kid really, since I'm putting him at twenty-four, twenty-five. Anyway, one thing led to another and…"

 

"You took him back to the house. Damn it, Darren!"

 

He smiled weakly. "What can I tell you? He was cute? I was bored and horny? Shit happens. So anyway, we finished up. I was getting dressed. He was in the bathroom, and my friendly shooter showed up. He fired twice but, for whatever reason—maybe because he heard the kid and wanted to get away before he was seen—he didn't check to make sure I was dead. I managed to get out of there and ended up where you found me."

 

"After a lot of searching. A toolshed isn't much of a description in that neighborhood." She leaned back, staring at the wall over the bed for a minute. "I take it you didn't get a good look at the shooter?"

 

"Not really. He was silhouetted in the doorway. Tall. Dark hair, as far as I could tell. I was more interested in trying not to die than anything else when it happened. The only thing that got me out of there once he was gone was adrenaline."

 

"Could this kid have seen him? And does he have a name?"

 

"Micky, but that's all I know." Darren shrugged. "If he did see anything, he didn't come running to my defense."

You Do What You Have To - 4

 

 

Resting his head against the wall, Micky stared off into space. Are you a good guy, Gary Freeman? Or a criminal? For sure, someone wants you dead. If the guy came back again, he must have been real pissed to find out you weren't a corpse. He probably thinks I helped you get away. I mean, damn, unless he was blind, he saw my clothes there, and yours. He'd have to be stupid not to put two and two together. If he took my wallet, like I thought earlier, figuring it was yours… I am so screwed if he did. There's no way I can go back to my place, or to… Shit!

 

Micky started to open his phone to call in to work then thought better of it. Not the calling in part, but using his own phone to do it. In fact, when he thought about it, he figured he'd better dump it somewhere instead. Have I seen too many cop shows? Could the shooter really track me down using my phone? Hell if I know, but I'm not taking any chances. He opened the back of the phone to take out the SIM card, because it had info on it he didn't want to lose. If it's not in the phone, they can't track me through it… I hope. With that done, he took the phone into the bathroom, set it on the floor and stomped on it until it was crushed. Gathering up the pieces, he tossed the smallest ones into the toilet and flushed, then wrapped the rest in a washcloth, intending to get rid of them in a Dumpster later.

 

Am I crazy, doing this? For all I know, the guy already traced me and is outside right now, waiting for me to open the door so he can take me out.

 

He scrubbed his hand over his face. "If he is," he said under his breath, "he's SOL, because I'm staying right here until…until my week is up. Yeah, right. I'll be a basket case by then, to say the least of starving to death."

 

That made him realize he really was hungry. Do I dare go down to the lobby again? There were a couple of vending machines with snacks. He smiled morosely. I guess I could survive on those cheese crackers with peanut butter.

 

Taking a deep breath, he went to the window, carefully inching the curtain back enough to peer down at the parking lot behind the motel. There were a few empty cars but that was it. Across the lot, there was a vacant alley then another parking lot. It looked safe enough for him to chance going to the lobby.

 

"Okay, okay, grow a pair," he chastised himself. "It's daytime. No one is going to take potshots at me. I'm being paranoid—and then some. Ruining a perfectly good phone because…of a damned nightmare." He shook his head and opened the door, checking the balcony before stepping out. "Empty. Duh. Just like the lot." For a moment he froze when a truck came down the alley. Then, disgusted at his cowardice, he made his way to the motel lobby.

 

You Do What You Have To - 3

 

 

Micky made his way to the center of the city, taking alleys, crossing the streets only after he'd checked to be certain no one seemed interested in him. Not that the guy would come marching down the street toward me, gun out and firing. I hope.

 

He had a destination in mind. A place he hadn't been at since he first arrived in the city, broke and friendless. Then, the motel had been his salvation. Now it could be again, he figured.

 

Or not. I'll need to pay for a room. He took Gary's wallet from his pocket, hoping against hope the man had money. When he checked, he whistled softly. Five hundred? Holy shit. And a gold card. Not that I can use it. I sure don't look like him. Still…

 

Putting the wallet back in his pocket, he continued walking, although he changed direction, heading to a bus stop where he knew he could catch one that would take him to the cheap motel where they didn't ask questions if you were willing to pay in cash. That had been his first…home, he supposed, after coming to the city.

 

It was close to two in the morning, but the bus he needed was still running. Fifteen minutes later he got off a block from the motel. When he neared it, he was glad to see the sign still said "Cheap weekly rates", although he had a feeling they would be higher than the first time he'd been a guest. He was right. A week would cost him just over half the five hundred. Still, it was a bed and a bathroom. What else could a guy in his position want? And it was on the other side of the city from where Gary had been shot. The check-in clerk was old, tired and at that late hour, happy to take Micky's money instead of having to go through the formalities of running a credit card. Micky figured that would be the case. It had happened the first time he'd stayed there.

 

Micky's room, such as it was, was at the back of the motel, on the second floor. He trudged up the outside staircase and along the balcony, found 201 and went inside. Stripping down to his briefs, Micky collapsed into bed and fell asleep immediately.

 

* * * *

 

He awoke—he didn't know how much later—drenched in sweat. He'd dreamed of blood and a masked man with a gun chasing after him. In the nightmare, it seemed as if he was running in slow-motion with nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Getting up, he went into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and drenched his head in cold water. After drying off, he went back to bed. This time he slept without dreaming, awakening to sunlight streaming through the window.

 

After a long, hot shower, he dressed and went to the motel lobby to get a toothbrush and toothpaste from the vending machine along one wall. Going back to his room, he brushed his teeth, which made him feel almost human. Then he sat on the bed, his back against the wall, and tried to decide what to do next.

 

"Who the hell are you, that someone wanted you dead?" Micky muttered, picking up Gary's wallet from the nightstand between the twin beds. He flipped it open, looking at the driver's license again. Gary Freeman was definitely the same man Micky has been with last night. Although for all I know, that's not his real name any more than John was. He went through the wallet, looking for anything that would confirm the man's identity. The credit cards all belonged to Gary Freeman, as did, surprisingly, a library card. Both it and the license had the same address. Micky figured it had to belong to the house Gary took him to, though he didn't actually know for certain. At least it's on the right side of town to be.

 

He hadn't been paying attention when they'd driven over from the bar. He'd been much more interested in the man than the ride And when he'd run, after the shooting, all he'd been thinking was getting as far away as fast as possible, in case the shooter came back to finish the job.

 

"No fucking way was I about to become another victim. How the hell Gary managed to get out of there is…well, a miracle of some sort, I guess."

 

 

 

You Do What You Have To – 2

 

 

Micky took a deep breath, looking again at the blood-stained sheet. "How bad were you hurt, Gary?" he murmured. "Not fatally. Obviously. But with all that blood…? And why do I care? I mean, I do, because we sort of made a connection for a couple of hours. But what happened isn't any of my business. My getting out of here is—before someone thinks I'm the one who shot you."

 

He got to the door, reached for the handle, and panicked. Fingerprints! My fingerprints. They're all over the room. The bed. The bathroom. Everywhere. When someone sees this… If they call the cops, and they will… "I am so screwed," he muttered, wondering what the chances were he could wipe them all away. "Zero and then some, and, with my luck, someone would come in while I was trying to."

 

He patted his pockets to make certain everything was in them that he'd come with and made a horrifying discovery. His wallet was missing. Instantly he began searching for it, hoping it had fallen out when he had undressed, as remote as that possibility seemed. The only wallet in the room was the one he'd set on the dresser. Gary's wallet. Impulsively, not certain why, he grabbed it, sticking it in the pocket where he always kept his. For balance? Because it feels weird not to have something there? And why is his here and mine is gone? Damn. What if the guy who shot Gary took mine, thinking in was Gary's, without checking? He must have been in a hurry—duh—thought Gary was dead, and wanted his wallet for… For why? Now he has mine and he'll know who I am. That idea terrified Micky even more than the thought the cops might find him from the prints in the room. After all, the cops won't try to kill me. The guy who shot Gary probably will, once he realizes it's my wallet, not Gary's.

 

"I'm out of here," Micky whispered, opening the bedroom door. He peered down the hallway, which was empty, then crept along it to the door at the far end. He heaved a sigh of relief when he found it opened onto the backyard of the house. Moments later he was in the alley, heading—he wasn't sure where, but not back to his apartment. Not until I know it's safe to go there, and that might never happen.

 

* * * *

 

Gary came to, slowly, wondering where the hell he was—and why. Then he remembered—the why, at least—and put one hand to his head, grimacing at the pain when he moved his arm. His hair was sticky with blood, but as far as he could tell, the bullet hadn't done any real damage. His side was another matter.

 

Hopefully nothing fatal. Hell, if it was, I wouldn't be awake to think about it. Gingerly he pressed his fingers to the wound, realizing as he did that he wasn't wearing a shirt. He inched his hand around to his back, searching for an exit wound, relieved when he found one. It meant the shot had been through-and-through—the bullet not bouncing around inside of him.

 

"You blew it, whoever the hell you were," he muttered. "You should have checked to be certain I was dead."

 

Looking around, he saw he'd ended up in what looked like someone's toolshed. Probably a neighbor's, he figured, since he doubted he could have made it far with the wounds he had. When he tried to sit up, he failed, as a wave of intense pain washed over him. Not going anywhere on my own for a while. Let's hope… He felt the pocket of his jeans where he kept his phone. At least I didn't lose it. He tugged it out, trying not to move more than necessary. Then he placed a call.

 

 

 

Out today - 'Dinner at 8, Death at 8:30'!

 Dinner at 8, Death at 8:30

https://www.jms-books.com/edward-kendrick-c-224_229/dinner-at-800-death-at-830-p-4338.html 

https://www.amazon.com/Dinner-00-Death-Edward-Kendrick-ebook/dp/B09ZRZXPWW

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/dinner-at-8-edward-kendrick/1141468341?ean=9781685500986 

https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/dinner-at-8-00-death-at-8-30  

 

GENRE: Gay Mystery Romance
LENGTH: 23,621 words
RATING:

Attending the dinner party thrown by his father, Ed Newton, to celebrate his sister's engagement seemed like a fine idea to Mick and his lover, PI Trent Taylor. Even a snowstorm didn't dampen the spirits of everyone attending, despite the fact it soon turned into a raging blizzard.

Everything would have gone as expected -- until the power went out during dinner, trapping the guests in Ed's penthouse condo. Even that would have been surmountable if James, the father of the future groom, hadn't died suddenly, soon after dessert was served. At first glance it seemed to be a heart attack brought on by a severe case of food poisoning. Trent wasn't so certain that was the case, but with no proof otherwise, he kept quiet other than to tell Mick why he believed it could be murder.

The death, and the blizzard, definitely put a damper on the festivities. Then a second person dies, and this time the circumstances are decidedly suspicious.

Will Trent be able to prove what he believes, that someone at the party is a killer, before anyone else dies? Only time will tell.

EXCERPT:

When everyone was seated, Ed at one end of the table, James Leonard at the other, Ed lifted his wine glass. "Congratulations on your engagement, my dearest daughter. And to you as well, Dirk."

"Here, here," the guests called out, clinking glasses.

Mick stood, glass in hand as he bowed to his sister and her fiancé. "As the brother of the soon to be bride, may I say you made a wise choice in asking her to marry you, Dirk."

"I agree," Adele and Dirk replied at the same time, getting laughs or chuckles from the others.

With the toasts taken care of, the platters of food were passed around so everyone could take what they wanted, and they began to eat. There were comments on how good the food was, and varied discussions between guests seated next to each other about work, vacation plans for the summer, and why there was a blizzard at the beginning of March in a city known for its clement weather even in winter.

Suddenly, every light in the condo went out with the exception of the candles and the fire. That elicited gasps from several of the women, and soft swearing from Ed as he got up, telling his guests he was going to check the circuit breakers.

"Don't bother," Trent said, pointing to the windows. Even through the heavily falling snow it was apparent that the whole block across from them was dark. Most of the guests went over to the living room windows, only to see that it wasn't just the local area which had suffered a power failure. No lights were visible anywhere in any part of the city that they could see through the snow as they looked out the west and south facing windows.

"Citywide blackout," Hank said, pointing out the obvious. "Let's hope it doesn't take forever for it to be fixed."

Vera hustled into the dining room, carrying a lit flashlight and a box of candles. She put the candles on the sideboard, then told Ed, "I checked the circuit breaker box and that's not why the electricity is out. At least we'll have heat of a sort with the fireplace, and the stove because it's gas, not electric. So ..." She put her hands on her hips, looking at everyone.

At that point all of them, with the exception of Ed and Izzy, were standing at the windows, staring morosely out at the storm. Vera shook her head, took four more candlesticks from a drawer in the sideboard, put candles in them, and moved around the table, putting them down between some of the wineglasses and then lighting the newest candles. "There. That's better. Now sit yourselves down again, and eat." she said loudly enough that everyone could hear her. "There's no sense wasting good food. It won't make the storm go away and you'll feel better on full stomachs."

"Words of wisdom from the lady who knows," Mick said, getting a smile from her.

* * * *

They finished eating. With Mick's help, Vera cleared the table before bringing out dessert -- an ornate cake decorated with icing flowers and the inscription 'Happy Engagement, Adele and Dirk! May your future be all you dreamed.'

"It will be," Dirk said, giving Adele a hearty kiss, which she returned with equal fervor. "Now, let's demolish the cake." He handed her the serving knife which she used to cut the cake into fifteen slices, one for each guest and the last for Vera, after insisting she join them.

Despite the circumstances, the mood was generally upbeat as everyone dug into their dessert. That is until James leapt from his seat, racing madly to the half-bath off the dining room, not bothering to close the door before bending over the toilet, vomiting harshly. Karen was beside him seconds later, rubbing his back while looking in panic at Ed and Dirk who came in right after her.

"What's wrong?" Ed asked, although it was obvious James was sick as a dog.

Wiping his mouth on the washcloth his wife handed him, James started to reply before doubling over, holding his abdomen, and then vomiting, again. Finally, he was able to say, "I don't know. It hit me like a Mack truck." He stood, with Karen's help, and then rinsed his mouth out at the sink. "Must have been something I ate, but ... "

"Not to put too fine a point on it, but if it was, why isn't anyone else sick, because no one else is, right?" Trent asked from the doorway, looking at the other guests, all of whom indicated one way or another that they were fine. "Do you have any food allergies, James?"

"No." James shook his head vehemently. "I need to lie down before I fall down."

Ed put his arm around James' waist. "You can use one of the sofas in the theater until you're feeling better."

They had barely gotten there when James doubled over again, although he didn't vomit. "It hurts like hell," he managed to get out before collapsing on the floor next to sofa, his eyes rolling back in his head.

"Someone call 911," Dirk shouted as he tore off his father's tie, pulled open his shirt, and started to perform CPR on him.

"Won't do any good," Mick called back. "Even if they could get to the building, they couldn't get up here. With no electricity the elevators won't work."

 

You Do What You Have To - 1

 

(This story originally came out in July of 2015 from a now defunct publisher.)

 

"Very nice," the man—he'd told Micky his name was John—said, his gaze raking over Micky's naked body. Micky crawled onto the bed, ending up between John's legs. "Condom?" Micky asked. Seconds later, John handed him one.

 

A good deal later, John said, "Not bad. Not bad at all." He ruffled Micky's hair then got up, going into the bathroom. Micky heard water running, knew he was cleaning up, and soon he was back, saying, as he picked up his jeans, "Your turn. There's a washcloth and towel on the rack by the sink."

 

Micky nodded, easing off the sticky sheets, realizing his chest was equally as gummy. He went into the bathroom, closing the door, and took his time washing up and taking a leak. He was about to return to the bedroom when he thought he heard a door open. He frowned, wondering if John had forgotten to tell him something. Like he had a housemate—or live-in lover.

 

This could be real awkward if that's the case.

 

Micky waited, hoping whoever was there would leave. Then there were two sharp reports. At first Micky thought it was a car backfiring. For a moment there was silence, then a door slammed, followed quickly by a groan and the sound—if Micky didn't miss his guess—of a window opening. Cautiously he opened the bathroom door, wondering what was going on.

 

It took him only a second to realize it hadn't been backfires that he'd heard. There was a large, reddish stain on the bed sheets and a trail of what he knew had to be blood leading to the window. The sill was bloody, and when Micky crept over and peered out, he saw more blood on the ground beneath him, but no sign of John.

 

Shaking like a leaf, Micky backed away, turning to look at the closed bedroom door. What if the guy comes back? What if he knew I was here and comes back to shoot me as well? No. If he'd known, he'd have tried to kill me then and there. Right?

 

Convincing himself that was true, Micky quickly gathered up his clothes and began to dress. As he did, he noticed something lying on the floor just under the armchair where John's clothes had ended up when he'd undressed, less than an hour earlier. Now, all that was on the chair was a shirt and John's shoes were still next to the dresser where he'd kicked them off. More curious than frightened at the moment, Micky picked up the object. It was a wallet. John's wallet, he was certain. He opened it and stared at the driver's license behind the plastic window. The face was John's. The name wasn't.

 

Well, I guess it's his name, but not the one he told me.

 

He set the wallet on the dresser and finished getting dressed. As he was tying his shoelaces, he suddenly realized something—something that scared him more than he'd already been. Someone's going to come in here, see all the blood and…and call the cops. Maybe I should do that. But…how do I explain what happened when I don't know? And what if they think I shot John? Or Gary, if that's his real name. Will they believe this really was just a one-night stand? That I met…Gary…at a bar and came home with him? Not like I can prove it, since we didn't leave together.

 

John had hit on Micky while they both were watching guys on the dance floor. They'd talked a bit, gone to the bar to get more beer and chatted a while. Then John—Gary—had suggested they go to his place. Micky hadn't been averse to the idea. The man had seemed nice, was good-looking with his short, dark hair and blue eyes, and Micky was horny. John had told him he was parked behind the bar, described his car then asked Micky to wait a couple of minutes before coming out to meet him there.

 

That was definitely strange, but I wasn't about to argue. Maybe I should have. Maybe? Hell, I definitely should have. Should have figured something was off and said 'No'. But I didn't and now I'm in the middle of…of a murder? Or an attempted one, since it seems like Gary's still alive. Or he was when he jumped out the window. Micky barely smiled. Damned good thing for him the house is only one story.