Blueblood (27 page)
“While avoiding any mention that they were shot and killed in the process.”
“Well, sure,” I said. “It just wasn’t
their
process.”
“What will happen to Bloch?”
I snorted. “He should be promoted. And he’ll get public claps on the back, but internally he’ll be a black sheep. Independent thinkers make the higher-ups nervous. They like the results, just not the methods."
"Like pulling in former cops to do all the legwork?”
"Something like that."
She nodded and we walked along a little further. The mid-May sun was hidden behind a raft of clouds, limning everything in dull gray. A cool, ugly day for a funeral. It matched my mood.
Amanda cleared her throat and said, “I got a funny phone call the other day.”
“Yeah?”
“I guess your oncologist’s office had kept my number as a backup contact. Someone must’ve mixed up the primary contact with me.”
“Oh,” I said, swallowing.
I could feel her eyes on me. “And they asked me what time they thought they could schedule your surgical procedure.”
We took a few steps. “Yeah, well. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t want you to get worried with everything that’s going on, with your job hunt and all. Plus this thing with Bloch.”
“Uh huh,” she said. “Want to tell me now?”
So I did. It felt good to talk it out and I realized that, if I’d been half as smart as I thought I was, I would’ve told her about the surgery as soon as I’d known. She asked sharp questions and said just the right things. We reached the cemetery parking lot and got in my car.
“When’s the surgery?” she asked.
“As soon as I can schedule it.”
“And who’s going to feed Pierre while you’re in the hospital?”
I opened my mouth, closed it. In typical Marty Singer fashion, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I realized I would’ve asked Amanda, but there was a good chance she wouldn’t be here. “I…don’t know. I guess I’ll have to find someone.”
She smiled. “No, you won’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Austin and Chicago called back with offers, but the money was insanely bad. I mean, I never expected to get rich, but I have to eat. Baltimore was a bust all around.”
“And?”
“And the clinic in DC came through. The money is enough to live on. They do wonderful work. Oh, and I hear there’s a cat that needs to be fed while his owner is recovering from a successful surgery.”
A grin split my face. A tight band across my chest that I didn’t know was there melted away. “I don’t think Pierre really has an
owner
.”
“We’ll see about that,” she said with a grin of her own, then put her hand out. I reached over, wrapped my hand around hers, and squeezed. We drove out of the cemetery and into the day.
Acknowledgements
I found many sources of inspiration, help, and education along the way to finishing
Blueblood
.
The continued love and support from my wife Renee makes the whole writing endeavor possible.
Blueblood
, as does all my writing, owes its existence to her.
Friends and family have been my unflagging cheerleaders and helpers. Sally Iden, Gary Iden, Kris Iden, Frank Gallivan, Carie Rothenbacher, Jeff Ziskind, Amy and Pete Talbot, David Jacobstein, and Eleonora Ibrani were all sounding boards, unstinting supporters, and readers throughout the birth of
Blueblood
. Karen Cantwell has been a wonderful colleague to work with throughout my nascent self-publishing career, never failing to give advice, pitch in on tough issues, or lend her experience.
Many thanks to Chip Cochran for sharing with me his expertise in law enforcement. His knowledge was critical in finishing the book. Any inaccuracies in a legal or law enforcement context are mine—though sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.
Officer Chuck Gallagher of the Foxboro, Massachusetts Police Department was kind enough to give his permission to use the wonderful photograph of the inaugural MPDC badge that graces the cover of
Blueblood
. Chuck is also an encyclopedic font of knowledge on all things about the history of the MPDC. Learn more—and view his stunning collection of MPDC memorabilia—at his site, www.dcmetropolicecollector.com.
My editors Alison Dasho (née Janssen) and Michael Mandarano cleaned up what I
thought
was a brilliant first draft and have been invaluable in the process of making me a better writer. Alison and Michael, thank you.
Ambush Alley: The Most Extraordinary Battle of the Iraq War
by Tim Pritchard was of great help in filling out Paul Garcia's battle experience, though the names and places have been altered. Samuel Logan's
This Is for the Mara Salvatrucha: Inside the MS-13, America's Most Violent Gang
was of enormous aid in dissecting Salvadoran gang violence in the U.S. and the circumstances that lead to it.
Finally, thank you to all the men and women who serve in law enforcement and in our military. In valor there is hope.
Author's Note
DC residents will recognize that I took liberties in describing some of the geography of the Metro area. Marty's oddball discovery of the buried boundary stone marking the border of Washington DC, however, is true--though my description of the Blue Plains impoundment lot is entirely fabricated. Read about the extraordinary journey of the SE8 boundary stone at www.boundarystones.org.
The theories behind Jake Valenti's extemporaneous criminology lecture on the steps of the 7th Street Portrait Gallery in Chapter Twenty-Two are my own creation.
The National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial is a very real place of serenity and power. Located at the center of the 400 block of E Street, NW, Washington, DC, it is well worth your time to visit. Learn more at www.nleomf.org.
Thank you for reading Blueblood.
I hope you've enjoyed what you've read. Please let me know what you think at [email protected], my
FaceBook page
, or Tweet me
@CrimeRighter
. I also enjoy connecting with readers and writers at my website at
matthew-iden.com
.
Independent writers can only survive and flourish with the help of readers. If you like what you've read, please consider reviewing
Blueblood
at your favorite readers' website.
If crime fiction is your thing, please check out my collection of short stories,
one bad twelve
(details below). And keep an eye out for the third Marty Singer novel,
Signs
, coming in Autumn/Winter 2012. An excerpt follows.
I also write fantasy and horror: check out my fantasy shorts
Sword of Kings,
Assassin,
and
Seven Into the Bleak
(links below). My literary horror novella,
Finding Emma
, is available in most digital formats.
Signs
Chapter One
The billboard was colossal and would've gotten my attention, if only for a brief second, no matter what had been on it. The rolling hills and horse farms along Route 29 are picturesque and cute enough for a post card, but they go on and on and on. Anything that breaks up the monotony will catch the eye, and a sign fifty feet wide and twenty feet high—in the middle of nowhere—qualified.
But it was what was on the sign that caused me to look at twice, three times, swear out loud, and unconsciously drift into the lane next to me. The semi to my right laid on his air horn to let me know what he thought of my driving and I twitched the wheel to the left to get out of his way. We zipped past the sign at sixty. It was another mile before I found a good place for a U-turn, which I did cautiously, and raced back to the billboard. A second tentative U-turn got me in front of the sign and I pulled over at the base of the enormous metal pillar it was on. I had to hunch forward in the driver's seat and lean over the steering wheel to see the whole thing.
It was the picture of a white man, slim, forty-something, with dirty blonde hair, a beard, and thick glasses. He had deep crows feet around the eyes and the beard was patchy in places, as though he'd trimmed it in the dark. His eyes were a deep brown. His mouth was open and his eyebrows slightly raised, making him look a tad surprised, as though the picture had been taken just as he'd turned around. Next to the picture was some text. It said:
JD HOPE WAS MURDERED ON MAY 6TH. DO YOU KNOW WHY?
Underneath the small bit of text was a phone number and nothing else. Out of habit, I grabbed a small notebook from the glove compartment and wrote the number down. I scribbled "JD HOPE" beneath it and underlined the name twice. I stared at it, only vaguely aware of the traffic hurtling past me, buffeting my car and making it rock.
The name conjured up a memory and not the best one at that. I looked up again at the face on the billboard. Given time, I would've recognized it, I think, but he hadn't had a beard when I knew him and the crows feet hadn't been so deep that they gave him a permanent squint. I pulled out my phone and stared at it, thinking.
I was a retired homicide cop with some time on my hands. I had no job to return to, no pressing deadlines, no family expecting me home. The journey to the heartland of south-central Virginia to visit a friend was one of the few trips I'd taken in the last year or so, but I was on my way back, not down. And I didn't owe JD Hope or the people that cared about him anything. I could, in good conscience, put the car in drive and head home to Arlington and easily forget I'd ever seen the billboard.
I looked up at the face on the sign. JD Hope looked back down at me. I sighed. After another minute I said, "Shit," and punched in the number. The phone on the other end of the line picked up and a young woman's voice answered.
"Mrs. Hope?" I asked.
"No, this is Mary Beth Able," she said. "I am—I…was JD's sister. Are you calling about the sign?"
I took a deep breath and said, "Yes, ma'am. My name is Marty Singer. Ten years ago, I arrested your brother for murder."
A Reason to Live
"The story is filled with twists and turns, just when you expect it to move one way, it turns in another, and only at the very end do you see the full picture..."
— Roberta Karchner, Amazon Top 50 Reviewer, 5 Star review
In the late nineties, a bad cop killed a good woman and DC Homicide detective Marty Singer got to watch as the murderer walked out of the courtroom a free man.
Twelve years later, the victim's daughter comes to Marty begging for help: the killer is stalking her now.
There's just one problem: Marty's retired...and he's retired because he's battling cancer. But with a second shot at the killer—and a first chance at redemption—Marty's just found
A Reason to Live
.
