Traveling, Reading, Signing My Latest Novel, 'Haunted Bones

Readings and Signing for Haunted Bones:

I’m off on a book tour this next week. First up is a reading and signing event at the Book Carnival in Orange, between 2 to 5 p.m., on Sunday, Nov. 17. Next, I’ll be in Phoenix being interviewed on the Pat McMahon radio show at 8 a.m., on Friday, Nov. 22. On Nov. 30, I’ll be at the Dog-Eared Page bookstore in Phoenix. If any of you are in the vicinity of any of these events, drop by and say hello.

What I’m Thinking Now:

For the 2016 Presidential campaign, there’s little doubt the Democrats will run a woman, most likely Hillary Clinton. If the GOP wants to win, they’re going to have to meet that challenge with a strong Republican woman/women candidate(s). Here are two highly-capable women now leading their states: Gov. Nikki Haley of South Carolina and Gov. Susana Martinez of New Mexico. Condolesa Rice is a good possibility, but definitely not Sarah Palin – mention of her name causes a fire storm in many quarters. For 2016, is definitely going to be the year of the woman. We’ve got some good choices to go up against Hillary.

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There’s little or no chance of “ObamaCare” being repealed in the foreseeable future. Those opposing it should just sit back and watch things unfold. If it works, so be it. If it collapses, then the nay-sayers were right and the GOP will be the big winner in the next two elections.

My Readers Write:

Hi Tom,

Took advantage of a total “day off” this weekend and decided to spend a few moments with “Haunted Bones.” What a pleasant surprise! The few moments went into hours of full engagement.

I found myself totally immersed in the book. Local references took me to the scenes as if I was part of the investigating team. I was looking for the clues to help solve the crimes. Next morning I almost searched the newspapers for news on the case.

I think those detectives deserve a sequel.

 Loved it! Congratulations

Joe Villela, Oceanside

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Buy your copy of “Haunted Bones” with free shipping at:

 tomorrowsnovels.com

My earlier novel, “Nebraska Doppelganger,” a World War II thriller, also is available at: tomorrowsnovels.com”

A bonus on my web site (above link) you’ll find a complete booklet, “Write You Life Story,” a few idea for writing autobiographies and biographies.

Below, find the next chapter of my novella, “Dark Angel.”

Chapter

5

     Merle Sanbourne operated a small one-chair barber shop in downtown Oceanside. There was a constant babble of jokes, rumors and political pontificating flowing through the air inside his shop. These days a lot was being said about the strange shootings by a sniper in town.

          “From what I’ve seen thus far, I think the guy’s got the right idea,” said one balding customer, who was having what little hair he had trimmed. “In fact, if I knew who he was, I’d offer to buy his ammunition.”

          Merle Sanbourne’s clientel tended to lean conservative in politics, and more times than not, “red-neck” in their social attitude. The shop reflected his own true feelings, but while most everyone knew what they were, Merle seldom commented on anything – occasionally shaking his head to whichever the direction of consensus would take the conversation.

          Merle was finding it hard not to chime in, but he learned a long time ago it was best to keep his opinions to himself. Most, but not all of those who frequented his shop, thought alike. Arguments were frequent; sometimes the discussions got pretty heated.

          Another customer sitting, waiting for Merle’s chair to be empty, agreed, shaking his head, not taking his eyes from the sports page he was reading.

          “They ought to give the guy a medal,” said another.

The barber was dying to confess his part in the day’s news, but knew it was information he’d take to the grave. Not even his wife would ever know.

          “You must really be happy about that molester fella getting’ knocked off,” another customer reckoned.

          Sanbourne looked down his glasses at him, said nothing, going back to the grooming task at hand.

          “Sorry, Merle. Didn’t mean to open up any old wounds,” the customer said when he realized his remark probably made Merle think of the dark days after finding his daughter raped and bludgeoned to death. The culprit was never found.

      Yes, he was delighted with the public service the sniper was performing. In fact, Sanbourne considered the man, whoever he may be, an angel sent from heaven.

Merle Sanbourne remained dumbfounded at his new-found power in directing the death of another human being, no matter how evil they might be. His mind seemed to explode with possibilities in searching for other crimes against society that could well fit this method of elimination, no matter how naïve it may seem. Sanbourne couldn’t stop pondering what sort of person this executioner was who delivers this seemingly righteous justice?

Sanbourne thought of myriad crimes he’d like to eliminate. Bank robbers? Burglars? Wife-beaters? Too many to contemplate. The mind boggles, he thought. But, none seemed to reach the magnitude of the child molester.

Suddenly he thought of another – drug pushers. The chatter continued in the barber shop, but Merle’s mind was elsewhere, but his scissors continued their task at hand.

 If drugs could be eliminated, even to a small degree, society would be the better for it,” he thought. Who fits this description in today’s world? Of course, gang-bangers. It didn’t matter what color or ethnic group, Mexican, Black, even Anglo gangs all pushed drugs to young people, Sanbourne thought. And, plenty of them are getting off, scot free. The scissors continued mowing the follicles on the head at hand.

What about sending a question to the PO box in Holtville?

Sanbourne had not destroyed the two-page letter as he was supposed to do. He re-read it and found a line he had missed on his original read:

For questions, send brief verbiage to Holtville; for answers see Tuesday’s edition of daily Blade under “Personals.”

He thought about his proposal all day and into the evening. Around 2 o’clock in the morning, Merle awoke from a sound sleep and decided to pose the following question:

“Angel: Should drug-pushing gang-’bangers be held accountable?”

He put on his surgical gloves, loaded a fresh piece of paper into his printer and composed the question on his computer. After printing it out, he eliminated it from his word processor.

The next day he dropped the question into the mail, only this time he took it to the Vista Post Office so as not to create a pattern.

Sanbourne mailed his question on Thursday. Waiting until Tuesday’s paper seemed like an eternity.

“Had he opened a new can of worms?” he wondered. Maybe not unless he sent further information. There were five days in which to contemplate this life-and-death question.

Tuesday morning Sanbourne heard the newpaper hit his driveway as the Blade carrier drove past his house. It was 4:30 a.m., right on time.

Merle slipped on his pants and scurried out to the front of his driveway. He would have gone out in his underwear, but Mrs. Caldwell across the street might be out watering her lawn. The old woman got up early in the morning, so she could get her nose in everyone’s day break business.

Sanbourne picked up the rolled paper, slipped off the rubber band as he walked back into the house. Stretching the newspaper across the kitchen table, he began poring over the classified section. Suddenly he spied the answer he sought in the Personals. “Angel agrees.”

That was the message -- short, sweet, and very simple. Anyone else reading the notice would have no clue as to its meaning. Placing a classified ad in the “Personal” columns of any newspaper could say and mean anything. A lot of weird folks use this method to communicate. It’s doubtful the classified sales clerks would even question this or any other message. If Merle were more techno savvy the message could have been delivered via e-mail, but that would be too easy to trace. This is a better method.

Merle realized the next move was up to him. He’d have to come up with likely candidates who needed removing from society. He’d have to select those who either have evaded arrest and/or conviction and prison, or those getting light sentences. There were a lot of the latter with state budgetary constraints being what they were.

“For god’s sake, they’re emptying out minimum security prisons to save money,” he thought. “That might be a good place to start.”

What about a convict’s so-called rehabilitation? Surely some do, indeed, reform and lead meaningful and productive lives after leaving prison. But, for drug dealers and gang members, there usually is no such thing as rehabilitation. In fact, going to prison not only is a right-of-passage and a kind of badge of honor among gang-’bangers, but it’s like going to a perpetrator’s college of higher learning. Being incarcerated is an opportunity to learn from more senior gang members. It was a nasty system. It’s as though an honest prisoner doesn’t have a chance behind bars. Sanbourne would do what he could to wipe the bad guys from the face of the earth.

“Where to start? How about the newspaper? There always is a plethora of stories and names concerning such things.” He would begin there.

Just then his wife, Helen, walked into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes.

“What are you doing up at this hour, dear?”

“Oh, I couldn’t sleep. I’m just reading the paper to see who did what to whom and what politicians are screwing us now,” he replied.

“Good luck with that,” she said, shuffling over to the sink to fill the coffee maker with water.

“What if by some magic we could eliminate a lot of crime in this world?” her husband pondered.

“Yeah, good luck with that too, Sherlock.”

Sanbourne ignored his wife’s dry sarcasm and continued scouring the morning paper. A new search had begun for more child-molesting and drug-pushing candidates.

The Battle That Saved The Free World!

By Tom Morrow

          Arguably, the “Battle of Britain,” which took place in the summer and fall of 1940, saved the free world from Nazi tyranny.

          After Adolf Hitler’s lighting success in capturing most of Western Europe using the German army’s “Blitzkreig” (lighting warfare) tactics, only Great Britain remained to be harnessed in the Nazi yolk of dictatorship. But all that stood in the way of German domination of England, Scotland, and Wales was the English Channel and the world’s most powerful flotilla: Britain’s Royal Navy.

          At that time, German Luftwaffe (air force) was the most powerful in the world with more than 2,500 fighters and bombers; Britain’s Royal Air Force numbered less than 800 fighters and bombers. Probably around 600 usable aircraft was a more realistic number. Hitler decided that bombing British airfields and demolishing the RAF would be a prelude to a Channel crossing and land invasion from the French coast some 25 miles away.

          Luftwaffe leader and Hitler’s No. 2, Herrman Goering, underestimated the tenacity of the British people’s will to resist and the bravado of RAF pilots. In order to equalize the numbers, British pilots would have to shoot down invading German planes on a four-to-one ratio.

          Hitler was confidant his bombers could overwhelm the British with brute force, knocking out coastal defenses and shipping, eventually giving the Germans air control over the whole of southern England.

          When the initial mission failed to destroy the RAF, Hitler launched a night-time bombing campaign, or as the British called it, “Blitz,” of London. So confident Goering was of his air force’s superiority, he bragged to Hitler that if any British bombs ever fell on Berlin, he mockingly told the Nazi leader that he could call the rotund air marshall, “Meyer,” (a Jewish name considered by the Nazis to be a supreme insult). When the first RAF bombs rained down on Berlin, no one knows what Hitler said to Goering, but it’s a good bet it wasn’t pleasant.

          Hitler under estimated the stamina of the British people and the skill of RAF pilots and their aircraft. While the Me-109 fighter was a fast and agile aircraft, the RAF “Spit fire” was a superior weapon.

          The Brits united under Prime Minister Winston Churchill’s leadership to defend their nation at all costs. They refused to give up, even as their cities were repeatedly bombed. The British had an advantage over the Germans: radar, which they invented. The Brits knew exactly when the Luftwaffe was coming, in what strength and at what altitude. RAF fighters, “Spitfires” and “Hurricanes,” kept German air raids at bay, but at great cost to the RAF. British and German aircraft factories were turning out planes as fast as possible to keep up with the daily destruction. Still, when the Battle of Britain ended, the British had lost some 900 aircraft to the Germans’ 2,300 planes. The RAF had nearly equalled their needed “four-to-one” combat ratio.

          Though the United States had yet to enter the war, President Roosevelt persuaded Congress to approve the “Lend-Lease” agreement, which sent ships, planes, guns, ammo, and desperately-needed food and medical supplies to the beleaguered British people. Historians generally agree that if the British nation had not stopped the Nazi aggression, an attack on North America would have been imminent. That one air battle might very well have preserved our democratic way of life instead of living under a dictatorship.

          One footnote to history – Goering asked his top fighter ace what he needed to defeat the British? Flight leader and fighter ace Adolf Galland replied: “Give me a squadron of Spitfires.” Goering was not amused.

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         Be sure a pick up the latest edition of "The Paper," and read my weekly column, "Historically Speaking," available at restaurants, grocery, and near or on newspaper stands throughout North County.

Go to my web site at: www.tomorrowsnovels.com to read about my novels and self-help books. Below, find Chapter Four of "Dark Angel."

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Chapter

4

       Down at the crime scene on Via del Flores, Shamus stood, studying the front yard for several minutes. A few curious neighbors began filing out of their houses, standing in their own yards, trying to determine what the retired detective was doing.

       “Whadda ya lookin’ at?” Danny finally asked.

       “Nothing. I’m just giving the yard a look-see for the benefit of the neighbors. They have to be assured their tax dollars are being spent wisely.”

       Danny was holding in a belly laugh.

       “Besides, you never know who might say something that could be of help,” Shamus said.

       “Lookin’ over where it happened, are ya?” a man said as he strolled into the yard.

       Danny and Shamus looked at each other. Shamus wanted to crack wise, but figured it’d not be appreciated under the circumstances. What he really wanted to say was: “No, I’m trying to estimate how much I’d charge to mow this lawn.”

       That’s what he wanted to say, but instead: “Yes, we are. And, you are?”

       “Oh, hey officer, I’m just a neighbor. I didn’t see the accident, nor did I really know the guy.”

       “Accident?” Danny said in a mocking voice.

       “Well, I guess I shouldn’t have said that.”

       The man identified himself as Carver Woodside, a neighbor who lived one door over to the east of the victim.

       “Did you know Mr. Schlicter well?” Shamus asked.

       “No, no I didn’t. Was that his name? Schlicter?”

       “How long have you lived here?” Danny asked.

       “Oh, golly, let’s see. Well, it’s going on 19 years,” Woodside replied.

       “Schlicter has lived here for more than a year and you didn’t know his name?” Danny asked.

       “Well, you know, I don’t have anything to do with his sort – no sir, I surely don’t.”

       “It’s okay, Mr. Woodside. You can go. If we need you we’ll give ya a holler, okay?”

       Shamus was back in his element.

       Danny admired Shamus for his ability to tell people to shove off and make them more or less happy they were on their way.

       "Hand me those binoculars," Shamus said. Danny complied, reaching into his car and pulled out a set of Zeis binoculars.

The old detective aimed them up at the ridge where the forensic tech estimated the shot might have been fired.

"Well, I can see where an expert marksman with a quality rifle and scope could make the shot," Shamus said. "I'm looking right at the ridge."

"How far ya figure?" Danny asked.

"Oh, maybe 700 or 800 yards."

"You'd have to be a pretty damned good shot at that distance," Danny reckoned.

"Naw. A good Marine sniper can hit a target in the right or left eye at a 1,000 yards," Shamus replied. “You choose which eye."

Arriving on the ridge, Shamus and Danny stopped their car along the side of the hill overlooking Mission Valley. The entire region was visible – the city’s airport, the old multi-screen drive-in theatre, and the venerable Mission San Luis Rey, which has stood since 1798.

       The two detectives stopped approximately where the forensic technician estimated from where the sniper had been shooting. Surely they’d find some sort of evidence that might give them a clue as to whom they were looking.

       They found nothing – nada. There was evidence the area had been traversed by motorcycles and off-road vehicles, but all of the tracks were several days, maybe even weeks, old.

       “I doubt if we’ll find anything around here,” Shamus mumbled. “I figure whoever this is we’re looking for isn’t going to leave any clues like empty cartridge casing, cigarette butts – you know, the usual stuff you see in movies. In reality it ain’t never that easy.”

    Danny agreed.

The two men looked around the area further, taking yellow tape and marking off a large area where they estimated the shooter was when he or she fired their rifle.

"We should get some forensic techs out here to comb this area," Shamus suggested. "It doesn't hurt to go through the motions for the record."

Danny agreed as he got on the car radio to make the request.

"We'll stay here until they arrive," he told the radio dispatcher.

Shamus continued surveying the terrain. It was a sweeping view that took in at least four hundred, maybe more, lower to middle-class homes.

“Ya know, just for grins, if I were you I believe I’d map out where all of the convicted and suspected child molesters live in this area,” Shamus advised.

“Good idea,” Danny agreed.

The district attorney’s office keeps track of such things. Anyone can go online and view maps and street locations of known felons convicted of child molestation.

“It’s not like it used to be,” Shamus reckoned. “These guys and their addresses are right in front of us at the click of a computer’s mouse.”

Where Do All The 'Fees' Go?

By Tom Morrow

   WHERE OH WHERE -- Unless you live in a cave, sooner or later you're going to encounter your city or county "permit" department. Whether you'll want to install a new water heater, replace the roof, build an addition to your home, or re-do your driveway or sidewalk, more than likely you're going to have to get a permit to do so.

   Understandably, cities and counties should have the duty of making sure things are done, built, replaced properly and safely. The question is: why is a fee necessary? Chances are, if you ask the question you'll be told, "Well, that's the way we've always done it," or, "It's to pay for our expenses."

   More than likely you'll be told those 'expenses' pay for the time the inspector takes to come out and inspect. Okay, then if the taxpayer is already paying that inspector's or engineer's salary, where does the 'fee' go? We pay taxes to pay for city and county government services employees' paychecks. I'd like to know to what coffer those permit fees go? If the inspector or engineer is already paid by his or her department, who gets the money we pay for the so-called permit fee?  Hmmmmm.

   BEST THING NOW -- The best thing the GOP and the radical Tea Party wing could do right now concerning the so-called ObamaCare is to shut up! Sit back and watch everything crumble. It'll be the best campaigning tool for the mid-term election. If ObamaCare succeeds, so be it -- it's the law of the land and nothing can be done until the occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. changes. Get over it.

   HOLIDAY GIFTS -- A friend of mine suggested that instead of going through the trouble of talking (writing) about how my books would make great holiday gifts, he said I should boil it down to just three words: "Buy My Books."
 
   Enough said. Go to: www.tomorrowsnovels.com


Here's the next chapter of my novella, 'Dark Angel.' Give me some feedback to tell me if you like the story so far. Any suggestion:  quotetaker@msn.com

Chapter

3

       For a few weeks Merle Sanbourne had scanned through the San Diego daily newspaper looking for specific-types of news stories. His search was short-lived. On Page 7 in the North County news section Sanbourne found what he was looking for. It was a story about six-inches long with a headline reading: “Accused child molester released after nine months.”

       Sanbourne also had heard about a North San Diego County man arrested by County Sheriff deputies two months ago for suspected child molestation. Deputies and the District Attorney’s office thought they had a solid case. The suspect was seen near an elementary school; an eight-year-old girl was found near a lake just outside of Hidden Valley. Traumatized by what was concluded to be molestation, the little girl was able to give a description of the man’s pick-up truck and a vague description of him.

       Police said the girl was scared and could say little more than what the man’s truck looked like and that he was a “white man.”

       The man was released for lack of evidence and identification.

       Sanbourne knew all too well how the girl’s parents must feel. He had gone through this unspeakable experience with his own daughter. Little Amy Sanbourne was only six when she was abducted from the family front yard. Her body was found two days later in a field between San Martinez and Middleburg.

       Sanbourne vowed to himself to see that justice was meted to perpetrators who would prey upon those who were helpless – mainly children.

       No one has ever been arrested for his daughter’s violation and death, but Sanbourne figured one of those suspects being arrested and tried must be the culprit whom he sought – worse yet, the bastard was still out there, free to commit more heinous crimes against little ones.

       Last year, following a television interview, Sanbourne was walking to his car when an unknown woman in her thirties or early forties came up and handed him an envelope. She said nothing, but gave a slight smile then walked away before he could ask her name.

       After getting into his car, Sanbourne opened the envelope, finding a type-written letter.

       “I know your pain and there’s a partial remedy. There is someone who shares our nightmare of losing a child to a molestation. Where the law fails, our friend will dispense the necessary justice.”

       A code was printed below the message. The directions to the code read: “Whenever you find or read about a molestation convict or suspect, if a story appears in a newspaper, mail the information to the following: Box Holder, PO Box 22226, Holtville, California.”

       There was a second page stapled to the letter. It went on to explain that if a news article was found describing a suspect or convict, that information could be passed on to someone who would take action. The needed code for relaying the information would be: “The month, day, newspaper in which the article was printed, the page number, and the column it could be found.”

       The code would appear thusly: 4-11-B-14-2. (April11, Blade, Page 14, Column 2).

       “Our mutual friend will find and read the story and take the appropriate action, if any is needed.”

       It ended with a large print: “DESTROY THIS LETTER ONCE YOU’VE MEMORIZED THE CODE.” It  was signed: The Angel of Justice.”

       It had been a year since receiving the letter from the woman. Sanbourne hadn’t paid much attention to the report of a suspected child molester, who had been murdered a year ago in Oceanside. He figured it was a distraught parent or angry neighbor, but this morning’s front-page of  the Blade reported a shooting last night in Mission Valley. The killing hit home when he read the story. The victim was the very man Sanbourne had fingered when he sent a note to the post office box in Holtville a month ago.

       The man, who had been convicted of child molestation, had received only 9 months in prison even though the nine-year-old boy hasn’t spoken a word since that day he was grabbed off the street while riding his bicycle. The Union-Tribune article had been found on Page 2 of the North County section stating the suspect received an early release “for good behavior,” and a recommendation from a prison psychiatrist that he had “made outstanding progress” in his therapy.

       Sanbourne had carefully typed the coded message, as the anonymous letter had directed: “5-27-U-3-1.” Nothing more. He wore rubber surgical gloves while preparing the message, placed it in a small envelope, put a first-class postage stamp on it, and waited until midnight to drop it into the letter box at the San Juan Pablo post office.

       Sanbourne didn’t know what would happen next. Since he had posted the note last month, the article on Page 1 of that morning’s paper gave Sanbourne a cold chill. Was he responsible for this man’s death? Could it be that easy to wipe out the life of another? If it be true, it was a terrible power. Would whoever did the deed of justice use discretion? Would he carefully weigh the situation and decide for himself whether or not the suspect/victim deserved to die?

       All of these questions raced through Sanbourne’s mind. He thought about all of them for less than a minute. He shrugged his shoulders, muttering to himself, “I hope the son-of-a-bitch rots in hell.”

       Sanbourne re-read the morning article. Police speculate the victim was shot with a high-powered rifle from “some distance.” He wondered about what sort of man would take on such a task. A military-trained sniper? It would have to be someone who could be cold, calculating and with a steady aim. He must be driven. Had he lost a child? Surely that must be the case. Sanbourne, himself, couldn’t accomplish such a feat despite his loss. Still, he had no problem in pointing out news reports that may end up with the culprit meeting his just reward.

       One molester shot sniper-style was worth noting; two within a year is more than a coincidence. Any more would certainly raise suspicion of a serial killer.

Would there be a third and fourth hit? If there is a third, surely the cops will begin putting two and two together. Maybe Sanbourne shouldn’t look quite so closely at his newspapers. The knowledge that he was responsible and wielded this tremendous power could also be a burden. Sanbourne doubted, though, he’d lose any sleep.

    He poured himself a cup of coffee, smiled, then went back to the breakfast bar to finish reading his newspaper.

       “What are you smiling about?” his wife asked as she walked into the kitchen.

       “There is a God!” Sanbourne replied, pointing to the news report on Page 1. “There, indeed, is justice in this world.”

       His wife said nothing as she stared expressionless out the kitchen window, slowly sipping her coffee.

 

       

 

 

  

    

Random Thoughts From a Frazzled Mind

By Tom Morrow

   UNBELIEVABLE -- All this talk about the national debt is mind-boggling. Don't know whether it's true, but one of the TV talking heads put out a piece of information that is nearly unbelievable, but then again, maybe not. In 1917, President Woodrow Wilson and the Congress borrowed $17 billion to pay for our part in World War I. That figure is believable, but what's a bit hard to fathom is that we still owe that $17 billion. All we've been doing since the war ended is pay the interest. Sound familiar? Okay, so what about World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan? Don't forget the big bill we ran up outspending the Soviets during the Cold War.
   All of this, I guess, is believable. After all, we talking about the Congress and the Federal government. Where will it all end? Is it possible to even do anything about it? As individuals, we would never be able to just keep borrowing and borrowing, paying only the interest. Hmmmmm.
   
   SAME-O, SAME-O -- Never ask any sales clerk under 30 how difficult a particular piece of electronic is to operate. You'll get the same response nearly every time: "Ah, it's simple." Let's face it, young people who grew up with computers do find things fairly simple, compared to those of us who began dealing in electronics by twisting the radio's tuning dial, do have an advantage.
   This week I went out and bought a new laptop. It was time, but even though I'm perfectly happy with my desktop PC, which operates on Windows XP, technological time has more than passed me by. Windows 7 whizzed by without me noticing, and now we're dealing with Windows 8 -- actually, when I got home my brand new computer had an update to Windows 8.1 waiting for me.
   While I don't consider myself a novice, (I learned six different computer operating systems over the last 20 years in newspapers), I am completely perplexed with Windows 8. One of my biggest problems is remembering which buttons do what. In a couple of words (actually four), I don't like it.
   Just as I've done in the past, I'll figure this out, but I'm still retreating to the safety of my Windows XP. After all, I've cranked out four novels, and three non-fiction books on that system. And,  yes, this column.

   SPEAKING OF BOOKS -- This week I'm running the second chapter (below) of my novella, "Dark Angel." And, on my new web site, tomorrowsnovels.com, I have a number of goodies for you to play with, plus you can read my "Write Your Own Story." It's a short read resulting from frequent queries by folks asking me how they could write their own biography or that of a parent. Also, be sure and click on the "Affiliate" page. It's a way for anyone to make money without any effort or cost. Check it out.

   Until next time...

Dark Angel 

Chapter

 2

Shamus O’Rourke lived on his motor yacht, berthed in Oceanside Harbor. It was a 40-foot “stink pot,” as sailboat owners lovingly refer to motorized watercraft. It was a reward Shamus gave himself for years of toiling as a homicide detective. He had seen just about every sort of cruelty that humanity could inflict upon itself. So, it was time for relaxation, a beer whenever he liked, and a stroll around the harbor to work out the kinks gathered from sea legs developed as his rather posh yacht gently rolled from the wake of passing boats skimming through the harbor.

       Those sea legs were earned from more than a year of living on the water. He seldom took the “Jenny Lynn” out of Oceanside Harbor unless a few cop chums wanted a day of deep-sea fishing. Shamus obliged by taking them out while he sat on the quarter deck sipping a brew while watching his comrades try to untangle their fishing lines from each other.

       Shamus was well-tanned from forehead to toes, which were peeking out of his ever-present flip-flop zapatos. The dark complexion was from being out in the sun more than he should. Shamus promised his most-recent ex-wife he’d pay closer attention to solar exposure lest skin cancer set in.

       He was still close to Jenny Lynn, his yacht’s namesake, although she preferred to enjoy his company from afar – primarily via the telephone. He had named his beloved boat after her when times were better and seas calmer. When she announced her departure back to Tulsa, he never bothered to re-christen the boat. It was too much trouble to get a sign painter to change it, and he didn’t want to insult the one person to which he remained close, if only verbally on the cell phone.

       His cell phone rang.

       “City dump,” Shamus answered in an upbeat, business-like manner. His friends would know it was him; anyone else, especially bill collectors and telemarketing peons, usually hung up, thinking they had the wrong number.

       “Hey, ‘O,’ you got time for lunch,” came a familiar voice on the other end.

       “Sure, I always have time for a free lunch. It is gonna be free, isn’t it?”

       “Of course. We’ll let the chief pick up the tab.”

       The chief picking up the tab meant his old partner was in trouble with a case.

       “What’s up?” Shamus knew Danny wasn’t calling for sociability’s sake, especially in the middle of the day and in the middle of the week.

       “I gotta case you might be interested in.”

       “Don’t tell me you caught that shooting down in the Valley? I read it this morning in the Blade.”

       “Yep. But the news media doesn’t know how the guy was shot, nor why?”

       Danny was one of O’Rourke’s closer confidants. Working together as a two-man team for six years tends to bring partners to the point where each knows the other’s thoughts, moods, problems, strengths, and weaknesses.

       “See you at the Surf Break around 11:30, if that’s okay.”

       “Sure. I’ll put on my best flip-flops. I’ll even wear a clean aloha shirt in your honor.”

       “You’re all heart, asshole. See ya then,” Danny said, hanging up.

       “It must be a real puzzler for them, this shooting of last night,” Shamus thought to himself. He knew full-well how Danny hated to ask for help, so he must be really stumped to call on the retired reserves.”

       The quaint comfort-food café was located in the south part of the city on Coast Highway. Shamus thought of Yogi Berra’s alleged comment about a popular New York eatery. “Nobody goes there anymore – it’s too crowded.” The same quip could be said of the Surf Break.

       It was 11:30 on the dot when Shamus managed to find a parking slot on the street. He saw Danny had captured an outdoor table over near the edge of the make-shift patio, which was partially on the sidewalk with the rest covering what would have been lawn in front of the café had there been any.

       “Buddy,” Danny said, standing, extending his hand.

       “How’s it going? No, let me guess. You’re calling in the first-team to solve your little problem,” Shamus replied with a chuckle.

       “You might say that,” Danny responded, sans smile. He took a long sip of his iced tea.

       A cheerful young waitress with shorts so short and tight there wasn’t a lot left to imagine. She bounced up to their table, giving a cheerful welcome, dealing two menus like cards from a deck.

       “And, sir, what would you like to drink?”

       “Are you talking about this clown? Danny chuckled, half-pointing at his old partner. “You can call him a lot of things, but gentleman?”

       “Both of you, of course.” It wasn’t the first time she had waited on the two detectives – the first time, however, both of them together.

       Nothing of substance was passed between the two cops until their sandwiches were delivered by the waitress.

       “A Marine’s wife? whadda ya think?” Danny ventured as he was squeezing mustard onto his hamburger.

       “Naw, she’s a college student. No ring.” Shamus countered.

       “Damn. Retired life hasn’t stunted your observational skills.”

       Shamus was well into his burger.

       “Okay, whadda got that has you stumped?” He mumbled through a mouthful of meat and bun.

       “O’Rourke, it’s not so much being stumped, it’s who and how the victim was offed,” Danny replied, studying his own half-eaten burger without looking at his old partner.”

       “What?” Shamus’ curiosity was building.

       “Well, this guy lived out on Via de Flores. He was shot while watering his front yard. The neighbors called 9-1-1 about 5 o’clock last night. They didn’t hear a shot, but they saw him go down.”

       Shamus stopped chewing.

       “No report from the gun?”

       “Nothing. I got four witnesses, two next-door neighbors, a kid riding by on his bike, and an old lady across the street peeping out her front-room window. You know the type – keeps tabs on everyone – complaining about everything, never pleased with anything,” Danny replied.

       “Anyway, the victim is a 48-year-old white male. The neighbors probably wouldn’t have bothered to call us except they probably figured the guy would stink up the neighborhood if we didn’t get his carcass outta there.”

       “Well, there’s always the coyotes,” Shamus whispered. “The guy was real liked, huh? So, who shot ‘em?”

       “Remember last year before you retired we got that unsolved shooting that we figured was done by a sniper?”

       “Yeah. I remember.” Danny now had his old partner’s full attention.

       “It looks like the same guy’s back. I figure maybe he’s after child molesters. Our guy last night was offed with a .30 caliber, steel-jacketed slug. It looks as though it was high-velocity and it probably came from up on the ridge above the victim's house. It had to have been 750 to 1,000 yards. That’s why no one heard the shot. This guy’s either very lucky or a helluva shot.”

       Shamus finished his sandwich and took a long gulp of his iced tea.

       “Could I have a re-fill on this, lil’ darling,” Shamus asked the perky waitress as she was finishing serving a nearby table.

       “Remind me. What was our victim of last year shot with?”

“That’s the interesting part. A .30 caliber slug – high velocity,” came the reply. “And, that victim was accused of child molestation, although the charge was dropped.”

       Shamus just sat, staring at his old partner, not saying anything.

       “I figured you might have some ideas, seeins’ how …”

       “Don’t go there, partner,” Shamus growled, cutting short Danny’s sentence.

       “Hey, I wouldn’t open up old wounds for anything, but ya gotta be interested in two child molesters being offed within a year’s time in the same manner.”

       Shamus slowly nodded agreement. The two men sat saying nothing for a minute or two.

       “Okay, you’ve got my attention. Are we talkin’ off-the-record? Am I supposed to get involved? Whadda ya want from me? How can I help?”

       “I ran this by the chief. He agrees that you can be a ‘consultant’ on these two cases. You have your retired badge, so you’re almost still a cop. He doesn’t want you packin’ but I’ll be right alongside you most of the time,” Danny explained.

       “Okay, when do we start?” Shamus asked.

       “Just as soon as I can pay for this lunch,” Danny smiled. “Oh, and the chief okayed this expense, but from now on out it’s just you and me. If I recall, you still owe me at least three lunches.”

       “In your dreams, asshole.” Shamus saw Danny chuckling. His old partner has a houseful of kids and a wife who loves to shop, so he never had any more than a fin in his pocket. He was a good, honest cop with a sense of humor and Shamus always was happy to fund their lunches and an occasional beer – but, he always gave the opposite impression as a measure of ribbing Danny.

       “Hey, why not bring me up to speed this afternoon while you take me out to the scene. I want to take a look up on the ridge and see if we can find the firing point,” Shamus said as he tossed a couple of bucks on the table for the perky young