Here's a little teaser of The Hanged Man's Ghost. Enjoy!
Chapter One: 187
The Windy City. I was born here, and my father and his father. Caught in tradition, bleeding blue for the city. Catholic to the bone, too. It was like watching a made-for-TV movie.
For me, the wind caught the voices of those souls lost to passion and fear. The ones that we found on the street, in back alleys and under bridges.
But those are the voices of the past. This was the start of a case that would change things. That would change me.
It started with a hangover, and the hangover started with a party. As it turns out, fourteen mojitos and a dozen or so Jell-o shots do not equate to a healthy morning. At least, I think it was only a dozen or so. There also may’ve been a couple beers in the count. The empty bottles at the end of the bed seemed to indicate that. The young man next to me, brunette with a slim build and pouty lips was pretty, and had probably been just as far gone when we tumbled into bed.
Blinking, clearing the crud from my eyes. I climbed out of the bed and pulled my discarded boxers back on, before stretching out my sore muscles. Where are my jeans? I looked around. His jeans, two sizes smaller than mine with a designer label, were huddled just under the bed. God, he still wore white briefs. I really hope he’s over the age of consent.
His wallet stuck out of the back pocket of his jeans, I scooped it up and flipped it open. Eric Howard, age nineteen. Thank God. I really did not need that hanging over my head. Someone needed to buy the kid boxers. Tucked just behind his driver’s license was another card, student ID? I couldn’t help myself, I jerked it out. Eric Harrison, age twenty-three. It was a fake. A good one. I kept that and put back the wallet.
My jeans had managed to climb the bookshelf. Strange. I jerked them down and pulled them on. The fake ID went in my back pocket. My shoes and ankle holster were sitting by a chair. I strapped the holster on and put on my sneakers.
Is this his place? It had a very dorm-like look to it. Book shelves crammed with junk and the occasional textbook, laundry slumped near a hamper in the corner and posters of half naked men on the walls. Okay, a gay boy’s dorm room, but a dorm room. I looked out the window. There were flowers in a box on the sill. Daisies. I didn’t recognize the street. A sign read East Monroe. Huh. Maybe I’m just down from the club. I grabbed my shirt, checked for my wallet—finding it in my pocket—and headed for the door. The kid woke up with a yawn and grabbed my hand.
“Hey, leaving so soon?” He blinked. Damn, he’s young.
He pouted. “Don’t I get a name and a phone number?”
“No, and if I see you in that club again, I’ll arrest you for underage drinking. Do we understand each other?”
He gulped, eyes wide. “Yes.”
Heh, I didn’t even have to flash my star. Hell, knowing me, I’d probably used a pick up line along the lines of, Hey, I’m a cop, you want to go have some fun? I have handcuffs. “Good. Sleep tight.” I paused. “And buy some boxers. You aren’t twelve.” He might as well have been. I buttoned my shirt on my way out the door. My cell phone buzzed as I hopped down the steps. I jerked it out my pocket and flipped it open. “Fynn Adder.”
“I don’t care how fan-fucking-tastic you think you are, Adder. You get your ass down here right now!” Captain Monroe screamed from the other end. I winced.
“Don’t you check your voicemail? We have a homicide on East Adams and Wabash. You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.”
I winced again. “I’ll be right there.” I hung up and shoved the phone back in my pocket. On the street, I hailed a cab. Miraculously, I got one. Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad. I hopped in. “Adams and Wabash.”
“Be there in five.”
The Hanged Man's Ghost
Coming February 12, 2012!
I'll be running a contest for a signed copy of The Hanged Man's Ghost in February, so keep your eyes peeled! Well, not literally, that would be horrible.