GENRE: Gay Thriller Spicy Romance
LENGTH: 266 pages
RATING:

Jimmy McSwain returns, but the question lingers, now that he has finally solved the fifteen-year-old murder of his NYPD cop-father, Joseph, who has he become?

Busy concentrating on family issues, Jimmy hasn’t taken a new case in nearly three months, and when a call comes in from Philip Connelly, who wants proof of his wife, Myra’s, cheating, Jimmy is torn. Take the case, or say no. He rejects it, only to learn a week later that Philip has been found dead in a park on Staten Island. The police believe it was suicide, but Myra -- a self-admitted adulteress -- is convinced he was murdered. Jimmy agrees to take the case. But it seems his decision to rejoin the world has also affected the other areas of his life: his sister is facing a health crisis, an old friend from his father’s past has resurfaced, and his lover, Captain Francis X. Frisano, is working a difficult case in Chelsea where gay men are being attacked.

If that wasn’t enough, Jimmy is on the hunt to bring down his new nemesis, the criminal mastermind Mr. Wu-Tin. A fire at one of his warehouses stirs fear in Jimmy that the man is trying to destroy evidence of his crimes. That’s when life throws him a twist, and suddenly Jimmy feels that just as he’s hoping to find answers, new mysteries emerge about whether the path he’s on leads to a fresh start, or a fresh kill.

EXCERPT:
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.

“Did you know him?” Jimmy asked.

“No. Never heard his name. Even though, as I learned, he had a business in town.”

“So he never did your taxes?”

“I’m not involved, Jimmy. All I did was find a body. I called 911.”

“Got it. Thanks. Anything else?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Part of the job. I might be private, but what I need to know is public.”

“You watch black and white movies?”

“Sometimes. Why?”

“You sound like them.”

He took it as a compliment. Fictional guys were fine. He dealt in real death. In this case, an unanswered shooting.

They walked another five minutes, again, Pam leading the way almost effortlessly. Ziggy, too, seemed to know the route.

At last they came to a small picnic area, several benches and children’s rides encircling the space. Pam walked them toward one wooden bench in particular, nothing unique about it. It looked just like the others, except to her.

“He was here.”

Jimmy stared forward, thinking about a body, its life taken from it. “What angle?”

“On his back, one hand falling over the edge.”

“Which one?”

“What do you mean?”

“Right hand or left? What direction was he facing?”

She paused, considering the question. Her eyes darted about, as though she was trying to determine directions. “That’s North,” she finally said, pointing to clarify. “His head was pointed in that direction. So, that means his right arm was the one falling forward.”

As Myra had stated, Philip had been a lefty. Still, something to confirm.

“And you saw the gun?”

“Under the bench. Kind of near one of the legs. A bottle of vodka, too, empty.”

If he’d shot himself, the gun wouldn’t have fallen that way. It had been placed there.

Skeptical, Jimmy tried to visualize the scene as Pam had discovered it. Something was off. The angle of the body, the location of the gun, neither seemed to add up to suicide. Which brought into question the findings of the NYPD. He’d had his issues with them over the years, they were good but not perfect, and sometimes they missed a vital clue. Jimmy was thinking Myra’s theory was on the money, that her husband had not offed himself. He’d been murdered. It was as clear to him as the blue sky throwing sunshine down on them.

Was his death related to her admitted affairs?

Or something to do with his business?

The 123 Precinct was clearly not interested in pursuing the case. That is, until he provided them the requisite evidence to reopen it. Then they would have no choice but to probe deeper. Cold cases deserved to be warmed up; it was a mantra he’d lived by. Not that this one was cold, it was icily closed.

“Is there anything else, Jimmy?” She kind of blinked dark eyes at him from behind those glasses. Flirtatious.

“Did you tell the police anything you haven’t told me?”

She hesitated, which worried him. Given Ziggy’s way of staring up at her, he sensed the dog sided with him. Yup, she was holding something back.

“This stays between you and me,” he said.

“Well, I didn’t want to get involved.”

“Many people don’t.”

“I saw his body the day before.”

Jimmy wasn’t sure what she meant. “Like, the night before? Maybe you took Ziggy for a late-night walk.”

“We never do that, not here. Always mornings. I saw the body a day before I reported it.”

“Which means Phillip Connelly was killed a day earlier than suspected.”

“Is that important?”

“It could be. Why didn’t you report it the first time?”

“I didn’t look closely. I figured he was just a drunk, sleeping it off.”

“What changed?”

“Seeing him in the same spot a day later, I realized something was wrong. I moved in closer and that’s when I saw the blood. Caked, dried.”

“So you didn’t notice blood the first night?”

“No. But like I said, I thought he was just a drunk and I steered clear.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Why is that important?”

“All details matter. What do you recall?”

“He was in a suit and tie. Which is why I ignored him. He looked respectable. Just maybe a guy who’d had a bad day.”

Indeed, he had.

“You told the police all of this?”

“Yes. They just shrugged. Another suicide. Poor guy.”

Jimmy just nodded.

“You don’t think he killed himself?” she asked.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Sad, no matter. He was attractive. Like he had so much to live for.”

Jimmy thanked Pamela, gave Ziggy a friendly brush of his head, and then sent the two of them back to their regular walk of life. As for Jimmy, he remained in the park, taking pictures of the supposed crime scene, wondering about the final days of Philip Connelly’s life. Had he known his killer, and if so, when had they met in the park? Why had Pam thought he was just as passed out drunk the first morning? Maybe she hadn’t taken a close look at him. Or maybe he’d still been alive. Twenty-four hours later, as dead as you got, a gunshot wound doing what all bullets intended.

Jimmy hated guns as much as he hated this case.