August 28, 2025

Crime

Book 3 of 3: Easy Crime

Marva took a slow sip of her drink, her expression unreadable. “Midnight’s risky, Robbie. The place is usually crawling with people that late.” Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion, a stark reflection of her hardened exterior. Years spent surviving in the unforgiving landscape of the city’s underbelly had honed her survival instincts, turning her into a creature of stark pragmatism. She had seen too much death, too much violence, to afford herself the luxury of fear or sentimentality. #Crime #Fiction #KU #Readers #Thriller #Kindle #Audible #Series


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Book 2 of 3: Easy Crime

The air hung thick and heavy, a humid blanket clinging to the skin even in the pre-dawn chill. The city, normally a cacophony of distant sirens and rumbling traffic, was unusually quiet, punctuated only by the rhythmic tremor that vibrated through the very foundations of the buildings… #Crime #Fiction #KU #Readers #Thriller #Kindle #Audible #Series


Home: https://www.wendellsweet.com


Book 1 of 3: Easy Crime

Then I saw him. Robby.

He hadn’t changed much. Still the same lean build, the same unsettlingly calm demeanor that had always made me both wary and fascinated. His eyes, though, held a sharper glint, a honed edge that spoke of survival in a world even harsher than the one behind bars. He was a predator, disguised in the sheep’s clothing of a casual acquaintance, and the way he sat at the bar, radiating an aura of dangerous nonchalance, sent a chill down my spine… #Crime #Fiction #KU #Readers #Thriller #Kindle #Audible


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by Sam Wolfe (Author)  Format: Kindle Edition

See all formats and editions


The Trap

The air hung thick and heavy, a miasma of stale cigarette smoke, cheap weed, and something else… something indefinably rotten. It clung to the peeling wallpaper, to the stained mattress shoved against the wall, to the very fabric of the room itself. This wasn’t just a dilapidated apartment in Harlem; it was a tomb, a suffocating cage built from neglect and despair. Rose-Lee, her eyes sharp and assessing, took it all in, the grime, the shadows, the sense of impending doom that settled like a shroud. Across the room, Alice huddled beneath a threadbare blanket, her eyes wide and fearful, a stark contrast to Rose-Lee’s steely gaze.

Dollar, their captor, paced like a caged animal. His movements were jerky, unpredictable, fueled by the relentless buzz of crack cocaine coursing through his veins. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his eyes darted nervously, reflecting the paranoia that gripped him. He wasn’t just high; he was unraveling, a frayed rope threatening to snap at any moment. The air crackled with his volatile energy, a palpable tension that tightened the already suffocating atmosphere. He muttered to himself, a stream of incoherent ramblings punctuated by the occasional curse, his voice a low growl that vibrated in the confined space.

The apartment was a testament to urban decay. The paint peeled from the walls in ragged strips, revealing layers of grime beneath. The floorboards groaned underfoot, a symphony of creaks and sighs that mirrored the building’s slow, agonizing decline. A single bare bulb hung precariously from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows that danced and writhed across the walls, creating an unsettling, almost hallucinatory effect. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and decay, a constant reminder of the neglect and squalor that had overtaken this once-proud building.

Outside, the city roared, a cacophony of sirens, car horns, and distant shouts. The sounds filtered through the thin walls, a stark contrast to the oppressive silence within. It was a constant, jarring reminder of the world beyond their prison walls, a world they desperately longed to return to. But escape seemed impossible, a distant, unattainable dream. Dollar’s unpredictable moods and the ever-present threat of violence made any attempt at escape fraught with deadly risks.

Rose-Lee’s mind, however, worked tirelessly, a relentless engine churning through possibilities. She was a survivor, honed by the harsh realities of the streets, possessing a cunning intelligence that belied her youthful appearance. She studied Dollar’s every move, looking for weaknesses, for cracks in his fragile composure. She observed the way he clutched his drugs, the tremor in his hands, the wild gleam in his eyes. It was a dance of predator and prey, a silent battle of wills played out in the confines of their crumbling apartment.

Breakout – Kindle edition by Wolfe, Sam. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.


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Enjoy this free peek at book 2 and then scroll down to get the book links…

CONNECTED: DELLO GREEN

Copyright 2016 W. W. Watson, all rights reserved foreign and domestic.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your bookseller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

LEGAL

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual living persons places, situations or events is purely coincidental.

Portions of this novel are Copyright © 2010 – 2015 W. W. Watson. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and, or distributed without the author’s permission.

Permission is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or electronic print.

DELLO GREEN

ONE

Small Problems for Big People

County Waste Transfer Station

Jimmy West

Jimmy West backed his big Dodge around to an open dumpster container, late afternoon was a perfect time. The county residents not in evidence: The large trucks done with their routes for the day: The dump about to close down for another day. Whenever he had something to dispose of and he needed privacy, he timed it so that he was here in the late afternoon just as he was now.

Smith, who now resided in the trunk of the Dodge, had met him on a back road of the local base. That was not as risky as it seemed. The base had been a small winter camp back in the early nineteen hundreds: When it had expanded the first time it had incorporated an entire nearby village. The whole township: Farms, streets, fields. At the third expansion, when it became a major base most people had forgotten about the old township and its farms and roads rotting away on the vast reservation. Jimmy, who had grown up in the area, had not.

Jimmy handled problems for different people. Very many of those people did favors for, or had business dealings with, people who had bad habits. Theft. Gambling. Prostitution, drugs, just to name a few. And many of those people with those bad habits got to know Jimmy West because they also had another bad habit: They constantly forgot to pay their debts.

Jimmy could see how a two dollar debt might slip someone’s mind. After all it was insignificant, but a three thousand dollar debt? Or even a thirty thousand dollar debt? No. He could not see how a debt that large could slip anyone’s mind. He couldn’t see how a debt that large wouldn’t be on your mind day and night until you had it paid, settled. Somehow, for some, it wasn’t that way and that was unfortunate for them because it meant they would most likely be getting a visit from Jimmy. A personal collection, so to speak.

Jimmy had a certain propensity for violence. His psychological evaluations in the service had shown an aptitude for following orders without question, and a certain flexibility of morals that some would find alarming, but which the government had used him for more than once. Killing didn’t seem to affect him the way it did others. In fact, it didn’t bother him at all. Killing was part of the job. That was how he looked at it then: And that was how he had explained his lack of empathy to the Army shrink that had debriefed him when he had resigned after his second tour. It was nothing special, it was how he was built. It was something his boss, Jojo White appreciated.

Jojo White ran the largest organized crime outfit on the east coast. He had met West fresh out of the service when some of those aptitudes had nearly gotten him killed. He had embraced that side of him. He employed West to fix problems for him.

Jimmy shut down the car and walked around to the back, looking in all directions, trying not be obvious as he did it: There was no one around. He keyed the trunk lock and the lid rose slowly.

West looked down into the trunk: Smith had been easy. Sometimes ordinary people picked up information or habits that became liabilities. When that happened Jimmy’s phone would ring. Not every problem he took care of knew something, but if need be every one of those problems had given up their information before he had allowed them to die.

Two weeks before it had been a reporter from Syracuse. He had gotten a little too close: Spooked White. White had put Jimmy on him. He had taken him out after have someone meet him in a bar. Men could be so easy like that. He had used one of White’s girls, and the reporter had followed her back to what he thought was her hotel room for a fun time. It was Jimmy’s hotel room, rented only to do the job. A few hours later he had carried him out to his car in his luggage. Today he had come here.

Smith had been selling in Jojo White’s cocaine territory. A bad idea. Jimmy knew he had sold the idea to a local bookie he had been in deep with. Move in, steal a little territory, sell fast and get the fuck out before Jojo even knew he had been there. It all sounded so easy when you were blue-skying it.

The bookie, Jimmy assumed, had passed the message on quietly: Was it worth the relief of a five thousand dollar debt? Ten thousand? Whatever it had been that Smith’s gambling habit had racked up, it had been wiped out: The man who held the reigns on those debts had forgiven it.

Jimmy, if forced to guess, would say that had been Jojo White, or someone who worked for Jojo. He was the biggest and the baddest: The most likely to be able to capitalize on information like that.

Jimmy didn’t like to guess though, guessing could get you dead pretty damn quick. So while he had curiosities about some things he handled, they were not strong enough curiosities to encourage him to ask a single question that he was not supposed to ask, ever. The jobs came through his cell. He answered, said yes in the right places and did the work: When the work was done he called another number. Later that day or the next the payment arrived in his bank account. A few times he had met with Jojo at his request. Sometimes he had met with others that also worked for Jojo, but for the most part he worked alone and took his orders over the phone.

He looked down into the trunk at the bundled and bagged remains of Smith. He was packaged up with actual garbage. He preferred to stop by a local nursing home and pick up a few bags from their dumpster to do the packaging with. It kept people from looking too closely.

He had met Smith on one of those back roads. It was a good place to meet even when there were maneuvers going on, and there had been.

Maneuvers meant gunfire, even live rounds. The whole area was off limits during maneuvers and training sessions, but he couldn’t have cared less about that. It was easy enough to sneak in, he had met him in a small clearing just off a one lane blacktop that had been chewed to bits over the years by tank treads, on the promise that he needed to show him something very important. He had taken him around to the trunk. He had been eager, probably thinking this was his way into the drug trade. The lid had risen to a plastic lined interior and he had shot him twice in the temple as the puzzled look had still been riding on his face. There had been no need to question him: There was nothing he knew that anyone needed to know: He had simply been unfortunate enough to have the audacity to challenge Jojo White.

A plastic rain suit had slipped right over his own clothes, and he had gone to work with an ax and a sharp knife that had been laying on the floor of the trunk waiting. By early afternoon the bagged remains had been resting in his trunk and he had been on his way to the transfer station.

He reached down, hefted the first bag out of the trunk and launched it into the huge steel container. Five minutes later he was finished and had paid his dumping fee as he left, smiling up at the woman in the office as he passed over the scales and drove out the gate.

TWO

Two months earlier

Dello and Nikki

Springfield New York

“Get up, get up, get up,” Dello said. He laughed. Nikki ignored him. “Honey, I have to go… I’ve got about a million things to do.”

She opened her eyes and looked of him. She was curled into his side, it was the way she slept and as much as he had to get moving he didn’t want her to pull away from him.

Dello was up on his elbows on the bed, Nikki pushed up on one elbow herself and laid her head on his stomach.

“A million, huh?” she asked.

“At least,” Dello said. One nipple poked out at him as she raised her head once more.

“But this is your day off, baby. We always sleep late…” She pouted.

“Uh huh. Except, baby, it’s almost over. And we’ve got things to do. You have your own things to get done today too… Right?” Dello asked. His hand dropped to her bare back and then trailed along down the center of her spine to her ass. He knew it was counterproductive. Not likely to get either of them moving any sooner, in fact probably later, but she had a great ass. A great ass.

She smiled at him, her blue-gray eyes mischievous. Her hand snaked down under the edge of the sheet and found him already hard.

“Ah, hah,” she said. “I think I’ve discovered something.”

He laughed, but his hands, both hands, ran across her bare cheeks. “Bring me this,” he said quietly.

She rose up on her knees and then threw one leg over his chest. His hands came up, cupped her cheeks and pulled her to him.

The morning passed them by for a little while.

Later

Dello looked at the clock. An hour had slipped by. Nikki was curled back into his side. Her breasts pressing against him, one hand resting on his stomach.

“I know, I know,” she mumbled. She raised up, one nipple poking out at him again and gave him her crooked smile.

“Couldn’t we just lay in bed all day? I promise you, you won’t regret it,” she said.

“Not until we have finished our part and it’s not done.” Dello answered. He reached for her and she came to him, the weight of her breasts against his chest. “A little while longer and days off will really be days off, baby,” he promised.

“I love it when you call me baby,” Nikki said. She sighed. “Since I can’t convince you with my womanly charms, I guess I better get myself in gear,” she said.

“You already did convince me. It’s an hour later, baby. You’re going up there to check things out, right? That’s a four hour trip.” Dello said.

“I know… I know,” she kissed the tip of his nose. “And I do take it seriously. I know it’s for us. For our future… Do we have tomorrow?” she asked.

“No, baby. I’ve got something I have to do for Jojo… I’ll be gone three days… I told you,” Dello said.

“I know,” she put her hands behind his neck. “Back in three days?”

“Back in three days and all yours, baby,” Dello agreed.

“I’ll do anything for you, baby. Anything. So long as it’s you and me in the end,” Nikki told him.

“You and me is all it is,” Dello said.

“You and me,” Nikki agreed.

Brownsville Two weeks earlier

Rico

“I grew up here,” Rico said. “That’s why I came back. Spread the money around, you know?”

Kelvin Gaynor nodded. “Sure, man. I can see that. You been good to us.”

“Yeah,” Sweet Jones added. “Gonna make you an honorary black man. A brother of another color.”

Kelvin smiled. One gold tooth glinted back at Rico.

“You ain’t fuckin’ around with anything anymore, right?” Rico asked. He looked at both of them. Letting the question fall between them.

“No,” Kelvin said. “Been clean… Gonna stay clean… Ain’t messing with nothing.”

“I got too much respect for my body to do that shit again,” Sweet said.

“Had to ask,” Rico said and smiled. “Some men can’t walk away. Fall into that shit and it gets them… You stay straight and I’ll give you work,” he said. “Same token, if you fuck up I won’t be able to save your asses… This is a big deal… I’m taking a chance with the two of you. I don’t need to tell you, right?” Rico asked.

“No, man,” Sweet said.

“Yeah, we’re good,” Kelvin told him.

Rico smiled, slipped one hand into his jeans, and pulled out a folded envelope. “There’s three grand in there. Get a halfway decent car. Buy one,” he looked at Kelvin. “I know how good you are, blanquito, but I can’t afford for you to get popped… So, buy one. Just ditch it when you’re through with it; so don’t buy it in your own name or some dumb shit thing like that.” He smiled. “Fifteen for each of you when we’re done… A day’s work… You can’t get that nowhere else. That ain’t no food stamp money, ese”

They both nodded.

Rico turned and got into the back of the limo that waited at the curb. He leaned out the rear window. “I’ll let you know… Get the car, it’ll be a few weeks… Stay out of trouble.” The black glass rolled up silently and he was gone. The limo purred away from the curb, traveled slowly down the block. People along the street stopped to look. The car made the corner and disappeared.

Kelvin looked at the envelope in his hand.

“Tell me you ain’t thinking of buying no fuckin’ car,” Sweet said.

Kelvin grinned. “Fuck no. I can’t spend money when I can take it for free. Like a woman. What man pays for it if he’s getting it for free? None,” Kelvin said. He looked around, people we’re looking at them.

“Come on,” Sweet said. “People is watching.”

They walked off down through a nearby alley and a few minutes later they were walking a rusty section of railroad track that ran behind the buildings…


Get the books…

Connected: Short Hauls Kindle Edition

Book 1 of 3: Connected

A collection of seven crime stories; including Harrows… They had been drinking one night when Robby had come out with the murder bit. #ShortStories #CrimeFiction #Watson #Readerrs #Kindle

Connected: Sanger Road Kindle Edition

Book 2 of 3: Connected

Sanger Road… Pulled from his mundane life, Carl finds a world where anything is possible if you are willing to risk everything… #Crime #Readers #Amazon #Kindle #BookLovers

Connected: Dello Green Kindle Edition

Book 3 of 3: Connected

Jimmy West backed his big Dodge around to an open dumpster container, late afternoon was a perfect time to dump a body… #CrimeFiction #CrimeJunkkies #CrimeReaders #Kindle #Amazon


Home: https://www.wendellsweet.com


Gus Dyer is a detective no more. Staring into the deep wells of corruption for too many years sent him into a spiral. He tried to use the bottle to find his way out, but that only dragged him in deeper. The road to Redemption is a look at that fall and how hard that fall was. But Gus is determined to stand on his own two feet again. It remains to be seen whether he will ever become a detective again, but he is finding out that being a detective is not about a badge. It isn’t something you take on with the position either. It is in your blood, and if you have it, you cannot help but follow those impulses that flood through your body with that blood when you know something is wrong. Dead wrong… #crime #thriller #mystery #amazon #ku


Home: https://www.wendellsweet.com


Gus Dyer is a hardcore detective in the big city. He knows what crime is, and he has seen the worst of the worst walk her streets and taken those same people down. Some to jail, some to the gates of hell where they belonged in the first place.

This time he is on the trail of a hired killer, Jimmy West. West works out of the city. It is his base and fortress, the place where he can roam free among millions of other people unseen, unchallenged and free to continue his crimes. #crime #thriller #mystery #amazon #ku


Home: https://www.wendellsweet.com


The dust swirled around my worn boots, a miniature desert storm kicked up by the frantic thump of my own heart. The air hung thick and heavy, the scent of dry earth and something else… something metallic and sickeningly sweet, clinging to the back of my throat. It was the smell of blood. Old blood. New blood. The kind that stains the soul as deeply as it stains the earth.
I’d been clean for six months, six agonizing months of sweat-soaked nights and gnawing cravings, a testament to a willpower I never knew I possessed. Six months of staring at the cracked pavement, avoiding the shadowed corners where my past lurked like a hungry ghost. But tonight, the ghost had found me.

#Crime #Readers #BookWorms #KU #KindleUnlimited #Amazon #DellSweet #WriterzNet


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Posted by Dell

Happy Sunday! This has been a pretty good week, writing productivity has been great and there has been a lot of back and forth between a few of us on the writing. That sort of bouncing ideas off each other always results in a better book.

The second Dreamer’s Worlds book is nearly finished. Once it is it will go for editing. That will probably wrap up this coming week sometime, and then I will work on The Fold the new settlement Earth book that the others have been working on. After that I am really thinking about finally finishing the first Rapid City book as an offering for the next ES/Zombie Plagues story. The story has to be told because that place becomes prominent later on in the series, and I have let it wait too long already.

That will bring me to Hurricane the second offering in the Rebecca Monet series. Hurricane is set in the state of Alabama and follows several characters there as a hurricane heads for the city. It will also feature Rebecca Monet as she continues to fight her way up the TV News Anchor ladder to get where she wants to be. It is a graphically violent novel like Billy Jingo and will probably have a warning attached to it.

I write these stories pretty easily. Having spent part of my life on the streets it’s not a far reach for me to see the seedier side of life and the people that populate that world.

This is an excerpt from Hurricane which will probably have to be re-titled because of the Movie Hurricane and writings about Rubin Hurricane Carter, so consider Hurricane a working title. I hope you enjoy the preview…


Hurricane is copyright 2010 – 2014 Wendell Sweet and independAntwriters Publishing.

All rights are reserved by the publishers.

This book excerpt is not for distribution by any means electronic or standard. It may be read and viewed here by anyone, but it may not be copied or transferred to any other platform/delivery system or website without the express permission of the publisher and Copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. And resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental. All events and circumstances are products of the authors imagination.

You may share this material with others by pointing them to this blog.


~

“I’m sorry,” Amy said, “Mike is such a asshole.”

Deidre said nothing. She had called and said she was having dinner at Amy’s house and that she would ride home from school with Amy’s mother, and then catch a ride back from Eight Mile later on. It was all a lie of course. Amy had called to tell her mother she would be at Deidre’s house. Someday it was all going to catch up to them, Deidre thought. But for now it hadn’t.

“Aim, earlier, before all the crap with Mike and Jimmy, we were talking,” Deidre said.

“Yeah,” Amy said. ” that is probably why he did it. Mike doesn’t like you and I to be together… To talk.” She said. They were both sitting on the running boards of Jimmy’s truck sipping beers. Dinner had been a bag of nachos. Split. And the beer, which Amy claimed had both calories and sugar, and so accounted for most of their dinner requirements.

“Between the two, we’re good,” Amy said half seriously.

“You said you were thinking of me,” Deidre said.

It seemed as though Amy was not going to answer her. “Uh huh… I know,” she said at last looking at her as she spoke.

“Hey!” Mike said, stepping around the corner of the truck. “I gotta piss, so, what are you gonna do just sit there and watch?” He tugged at his zipper, leering as he did, and Amy and Deidre both got up and walked away.

“Hey! What are you, a couple a fuckin’ lesbos? You only hang out with each other… People are gonna think things.”

Deidre’s face turned red. She turned back around and looked at him. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself with that little dick of yours,” She said quietly.

“What did you say,:” Mike asked. He took a step towards her, still holding his dick in his hand.

“I think you heard me or are your ears that small too,” she asked?

“You think you’re so fuckin’ smart, Bitch, but some day…”Mike said. Barely catching and hanging onto his temper.

“Dee, please,” Amy said. “Let it go.”

Deidre turned and walked away with Amy. Mike said nothing more.

Mike went back to pissing. His face red. His temples pulsing. Jimmy stepped up behind him. Mike finished, zipped himself up and turned around.

“Some day what?” Jimmy asked. His words were a little thick. They had been drinking most of the afternoon.

“What,” Mike asked?

Jimmy just stared at him. Jimmy was slow to anger, but Mike and he had known each other all of their lives and Jimmy was no one to fuck with once he did actually get angry. Especially when he was drinking.

“Okay,” Mike said. “She pissed me off… Did you hear what she said? I just got pissed is all.”

“I heard what both of you said. You started it with her. What’s the deal with the lesbian remark and coming over here to piss like that? Just expecting them to go? Did you whip it right out in front of them,” Jimmy asked?

“No… Of course not, Jimmy,” Mike said. “Look, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I just don’t like being talked to like that by any body let alone a girl. I’m not used to it. No man is,” Mike finished.

Jimmy stood for a moment and then the tension just ran out of him. “Fuck… She’d got a smart mouth… I know that. I’ll talk to her.. But you watch your mouth too… We’re friends.. I wouldn’t ever talk to Amy that way.. See?”

“Yeah.. Yeah, I see,” Mike agreed. Jimmy clapped one hand on his back and they walked away together back to the front of the Nissan.


Get the book…

Hurricane

Amy and Diedra are best friends, maybe more, something always seems to be in the way every time an opportunity to explore the possibilities arise. Dave Plasko is serving a long sentence at Huntsville state prison, and after that he will be transferred to New York to serve more time. Rebbeca Monet is working her way up the ladder of success in the television reporter game. A hurricane of epic proportions is heading towards Mobile Alabama. The lives of the people involved will never be the same again… #Crime #Drama #Action #Readers #DellSweet #KDP #KU


Have a great week and I’ll be back next weekend…


Home: https://www.wendellsweet.com


A free read from book one:

Private Investigations 1: A John Rourke Private Detective Story

by W. W. Watson © Copyright 2022

Cover Art © Copyright 2022 W. W.. Watson

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your bookseller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

LEGAL

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual living person’s places, situations or events is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and, or distributed without the author’s permission. Permission is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or electronic print.

Dedication

For Joan, my wife, the only dame who ever truly understood the shadows I walked in. This ain’t a love story, not in the conventional sense. There weren’t any moonlit strolls or whispered promises. Hell, most nights, I barely saw you, tucked away in that cramped apartment, the city’s symphony of sirens and shouts a lullaby to our uneasy peace. Our marriage was a deal, a contract hammered out between two bruised souls in a world that chewed up and spat out the soft and sentimental. You knew the game, the rules, the price. You saw the grime under my fingernails, the hollowness behind my eyes, the weight of every case clinging to me like a cheap suit. And still, you stuck around. You knew I wasn’t the knight in shining armor, more like a rusted tin can rattling down a back alley. But you saw something in the wreckage, something worth salvaging, even if it was just the stubborn ember of a flickering heart. This one’s for you, Joan. For the quiet strength you showed, for the unspoken understanding that passed between us in the dead of night, for enduring the man I am, not the man I wish I could be. For enduring the long silences, the averted gazes, the crumpled pay stubs that spoke volumes more than any words could ever say. For holding onto hope when I’d buried mine under layers of cynicism and cheap bourbon. This is a story of shadows, yes, but it’s also a story of the quiet loyalty that can bloom even in the darkest corners. A testament to the enduring power of a bond forged not in romance, but in the shared understanding of a life lived on the edge, where the lines between right and wrong blurred, and the only certainty was the next case, the next drink, the next uncertain dawn. It’s a small offering, this book, a poor substitute for the quiet life you deserved, a life free from the stench of smoke and the stain of violence. But it’s all I have to give, for you, the one woman who ever gave a damn about the crumpled, cynical, hard-boiled egg that is Jack Rourke. This one’s for you. And for the quiet strength you showed, the unspoken understanding, the enduring loyalty, even when there was nothing left to salvage but the embers of a flickering heart.

Chapter 1: The Stakeout Begins

The chipped paint on my beat-up Ford Falcon was flaking like old skin. The smell of stale coffee clung to the interior like a cheap perfume, a constant, bitter reminder of the long hours ahead. Across the street, Paul Fields’ two-story colonial loomed, a picture of suburban perfection, a stark contrast to the cramped discomfort of my temporary office. The relentless hum of traffic on Hemlock Drive was a dull, throbbing ache in my skull, a soundtrack to this tedious ballet of surveillance. My gut churned, not from the coffee, but from the gnawing feeling that I was hemorrhaging money, bleeding my retainer dry on this seemingly pointless stakeout.


Another hour ticked by, the sun inching its way across the sky, dragging the day along like a lead weight. This wasn’t the kind of case that got the adrenaline pumping. No shadowy figures, no whispered secrets in smoky bars, just a comfortable suburban home and a husband who seemed, at least from my vantage point, annoyingly ordinary. Melinda, the wife’s friend who’d hired me, had hinted at something more, something darker lurking beneath the surface of Paul’s apparently mundane life. But so far, all I had to show for five hundred bucks was a sore ass and the lingering taste of cheap coffee.


My gaze drifted to the house. Paul Fields, a man I’d pegged as a mid-level accountant based on the muted grey suit and the slightly receding hairline, was pacing the living room, a nervous energy vibrating off him like a faulty appliance. He kept checking the locks on the doors and windows, a ritualistic act that made my cynicism prickle. It wasn’t paranoia, not exactly; it was more like a compulsive twitch, a nervous habit amplified by whatever was eating at him. Was it guilt? Fear? Or simply the product of a mind overwhelmed by the mundane pressures of suburban existence? My years in this business had taught me that the most ordinary people often held the most extraordinary secrets.


I pulled out my notebook, the cheap paper rustling like dry leaves. I scribbled down a few notes, mostly observations about his movements – the way he nervously adjusted his tie, the slight tremor in his hand as he lit a cigarette, the way he kept glancing at the neighbor’s house as if expecting something, or someone. These weren’t the clues that made headlines, the kind that sold newspapers or landed you on TV. These were the tiny cracks in the façade, the almost imperceptible shifts in behavior that whispered of something amiss. But to the untrained eye, they were just… nothing. In my business, nothing was everything.


My thoughts drifted to Joan, my wife. Marriage, I’d decided long ago, was a complicated equation with too many variables. It was a series of compromises, small betrayals, and occasional moments of fragile intimacy that were often overshadowed by the petty squabbles and simmering resentments. It was a lot like this stakeout, actually: long stretches of tedious waiting, punctuated by brief bursts of activity, and the nagging feeling that it was all ultimately pointless. The money helped, of course. It paid the bills, kept a roof over our heads, even allowed for the occasional bottle of decent scotch. But the money couldn’t buy back the lost time, the quiet evenings that had been sacrificed at the altar of my cynical profession.


The hourly rate gnawed at me. Melinda had paid a hefty retainer upfront, but I was acutely aware of the ticking clock. Every hour spent here was an hour I could have been pursuing a more lucrative case. The guilt was a familiar companion, a shadow that followed me from one job to the next. It was a strange paradox of my profession: the quicker the case, the more guilty I felt, the more I worried about shortchanging my client, and the less I earned. It was a vicious cycle of doubt and self-recrimination, a never-ending loop playing on repeat in the back of my mind.


A memory flickered – Melinda’s face, pale and drawn, her eyes shadowed with worry. She’d met me in the dimly lit back room of a bar downtown, a place that smelled of stale beer and desperation. She’d spoken in hushed tones, her words carefully chosen, veiled in euphemisms. She’d never explicitly accused Paul of infidelity, but the suspicion hung heavy in the air, thick and cloying like the cigarette smoke that drifted around us. She’d spoken of unexplained absences, late nights, and a sudden shift in Paul’s behaviour, an unsettling change in a marriage that had previously been, at least on the surface, stable.


Hours bled into one another, the monotony punctuated only by the occasional car driving past, the rhythmic chirp of crickets from the nearby park, and the rhythmic tapping of my fingers against the steering wheel. Then, a break in the routine. A yellow taxi pulled up to the house next door, a nondescript dwelling with peeling paint and overgrown ivy. A woman emerged, her face obscured by the shadows, but her figure undeniably elegant in a way that contrasted sharply with the slightly shabby surroundings. She walked with purpose, a confident stride that betrayed no hint of hesitation, directly towards Paul Fields’ home.


My gut tightened. This wasn’t in the script. This wasn’t part of the expected narrative. This was a twist, a deviation from the predictable trajectory of a simple infidelity case. The woman disappeared inside Paul’s house, and the image of her silhouette against the lit window pane burned into my retinas. This wasn’t just about a straying husband anymore; this was something else entirely. Something more complicated, more dangerous. The feeling of dread wasn’t the familiar pang of anxiety associated with a looming deadline, but the sharper, colder fear of venturing into unknown territory. This stakeout, it seemed, was about to get a lot more interesting. And a lot more expensive for Melinda. And potentially, for me. The night was young, and the city held its breath.

The afternoon sun beat down on the Falcon’s dashboard, turning the interior into a small, sweltering oven. The smell of stale coffee had been joined by a new, unwelcome aroma: the faint, metallic tang of sweat. My shirt clung to my back, damp and uncomfortable. Paul Fields remained inside, his movements a blur behind the drawn curtains, but the overall impression was one of restless energy, a caged animal pacing its confines. He’d gone through the lock-checking ritual at least five times in the last hour, each repetition more frantic than the last. It wasn’t a subtle thing, this anxiety; it was practically radiating from the house, a palpable energy that even I, hardened veteran of countless stakeouts, couldn’t ignore.


I reached for my thermos, the lukewarm coffee a bitter disappointment. It did little to soothe the growing unease that was beginning to coil in my stomach, a knot of apprehension tightening with every passing minute. This wasn’t just a case of a possibly cheating husband; it had taken on a darker, more sinister edge. The obsessive checking of locks and windows wasn’t the behavior of a man hiding an affair; it was the behavior of a man hiding something far more significant. Something he was desperately, almost desperately afraid of losing.


My notebook lay open on my lap, filled with meticulous observations: the brand of cigarettes he smoked (Chesterfield, king size), the precise time he lit each one, the way he ground the butt into the ashtray with an almost aggressive force. These weren’t the glamorous details that made for a sensational story; they were the mundane breadcrumbs, the almost imperceptible clues that only someone with my experience could decipher, could weave into a narrative that held any real significance. But for now, they remained just that: breadcrumbs.


The hours stretched, each one a slow, agonizing crawl. The cityscape around me began to blur, the incessant drone of traffic merging into a single, hypnotic hum. My attention wavered, drifting from the house to my own life, the internal dialogue a familiar companion. Joan would be at home now, probably working on her latest watercolor painting, the gentle strokes of her brush a stark contrast to the harsh reality of my existence. I often wondered if she felt the same sense of unease, that same gnawing feeling of something being wrong, even when things seemed perfectly normal on the surface. Maybe she did; maybe that’s what kept us together, that shared unease, that unspoken awareness that beneath the surface of our seemingly stable marriage lay a chasm of unspoken words and quiet resentments.


I caught myself staring at the neighbor’s house again – the one the woman had emerged from. It was unremarkable, a typical suburban dwelling, slightly run-down and unkempt. Yet, it held a certain morbid fascination. It felt…significant. Like a piece of a puzzle I hadn’t yet found, a missing fragment in a picture I was slowly, painfully putting together. The woman had been striking, elegant in her simplicity, with a certain air of determination about her. She had entered Paul’s house without a second glance, her movements purposeful, even resolute. There was an understanding between them, a silent agreement that I couldn’t quite grasp. What was the nature of this interaction? Was she an accomplice, a confidante, or something more sinister?


The sun began its slow descent, casting long shadows across the street. The air cooled, the oppressive heat of the afternoon giving way to a cooler, more ominous evening chill. Paul Fields was less agitated now, but a subtle tension remained, a nervous stillness that was almost more unsettling than his earlier frenetic energy. He sat by the window, a drink in his hand, staring out into the gathering dusk. What was he looking for? Who was he expecting?


I checked my watch. The retainer was almost exhausted. Melinda’s initial payment, generous as it was, was quickly dwindling. The guilt gnawed at me again, the familiar pang of professional anxiety. I was spending more time on this case than I’d initially anticipated, and the hourly rate was a constant reminder of the dwindling financial returns. Was I overstepping my professional boundaries, letting my curiosity, my personal fascination with the case, cloud my judgment? I’d always prided myself on my objectivity, my detachment; but this case…this case was different.


A sudden noise broke through my thoughts – a low, rhythmic tapping against the glass of the window. I jerked my head up, my heart hammering against my ribs. It was coming from Paul Fields’ house, a slow, deliberate tapping, repetitive and insistent. My hand instinctively went to my pistol, a familiar weight offering a semblance of comfort, a grim reassurance in the growing darkness.


The tapping ceased. Paul Fields had disappeared from the window. Silence descended, heavy and oppressive, thick with an unspoken tension. The only sound was the distant hum of city traffic, and the faint, incessant chirping of crickets. The seemingly insignificant details I’d meticulously recorded in my notebook – the nervous tie adjustment, the tremor in his hand, the aggressive way he extinguished his cigarettes – these seemingly inconsequential observations took on a new, more profound significance. They were no longer just details; they were pieces of a puzzle, fragments of a story slowly, painfully unfolding before me, a story that promised to be far more complex, far more dangerous, than I’d initially imagined.


The night was settling in, and with it, a sense of foreboding that ran deeper than any simple case of infidelity. This was about secrets, lies, and a fear so profound it permeated every corner of Paul Fields’ carefully constructed suburban existence. The stakeout was far from over. In fact, I had a feeling it was just beginning. The truth, I suspected, lay buried deep, waiting to be unearthed, and my gut told me the cost of discovering it would be far greater than I’d ever anticipated. The woman’s visit had shifted everything, changing the stakes of the game. My job had moved beyond the simple pursuit of a cheating spouse; it had transformed into something far more complex, something that touched on the very fabric of human deception and its potentially lethal consequences.

The rhythmic tick-tock of the Falcon’s clock mocked the stillness of the evening. Each second felt stretched, an eternity of waiting. My mind, however, was far from the stakeout, adrift in the turbulent waters of my own marriage. Joan. The name itself felt like a worn coin, smooth from years of handling, its initial shine dulled by the relentless friction of daily life. We’d been together for fifteen years, a lifetime in some ways, a blink in others. The honeymoon phase had long since faded, replaced by a comfortable, if somewhat predictable, routine. We shared a life, a house, a bank account, but did we really share a soul? Was there still a spark, or was the flame reduced to a flickering ember, barely clinging to life?


The question gnawed at me, a persistent ache mirroring the dull throbbing in my temples. Marriage, I’d come to realize, was a constant negotiation, a delicate balancing act between individual desires and shared responsibilities. It was a dance of compromises, of unspoken expectations and carefully constructed compromises. Sometimes it felt more like a business deal than a partnership forged in love and passion. The paperwork – the joint accounts, the insurance policies, the mortgage payments – felt strangely analogous to the meticulous notes I kept on Paul Fields, each entry a careful accounting of actions, reactions, a meticulous record of a decaying trust.


Melinda, Paul’s wife’s friend, had paid handsomely upfront; a generous retainer, enough to keep me comfortably occupied for a week, even two. But the thought of the hourly rate – that constant, nagging reminder of the money I was burning – prickled my conscience. There was an insidious guilt that always followed a swiftly resolved case; a feeling of having cheated the system, of not earning my keep. This wasn’t a lavish life, detective work. It was more about steady income, keeping the wolves from the door, enough to keep Joan and I afloat. Yet, that constant pressure to justify my expenditure, to always be productive, mirrored the pressure in my marriage, where every moment seemed judged and accounted for.


Were we, Joan and I, simply two people going through the motions, enacting the rituals of marriage without the substance of genuine connection? Did the quiet silences between us represent a void, or simply the comfortable silence of two people who’d learned to live in harmony, even without passion? It was a question I’d avoided for too long, burying it beneath the layers of routine and responsibility. The work had become a convenient distraction, a shield against the introspective exploration of my own life.


The thought of Paul Fields’ situation – a man seemingly trapped in a web of his own making – stirred a painful resonance. Was his desperate need to secure his house an external manifestation of the same anxieties that gnawed at me? A fear of losing something precious, something irreplaceable? Or was it something darker? Something far more sinister than a simple midlife crisis or a clandestine affair? The more I observed him, the less certain I became of the original briefing. Infidelity seemed almost too simplistic, an inadequate explanation for the level of paranoia and anxiety I had witnessed.


The darkness deepened, swallowing the last vestiges of the day. The city lights twinkled, a distant, cold constellation in the vast expanse of night. My eyes remained fixed on Paul Fields’ house. The silence was broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant murmur of traffic. Yet, the stillness was deceptive. Beneath the surface, a current of tension flowed, a palpable sense of unease that tightened its grip with every passing moment.


I considered Joan again. Her world was a study in contrasts to mine. The vibrant colors of her paintings, the meticulous detail of her brushstrokes, the quiet satisfaction she derived from creating something beautiful; these represented a life that was completely separate from my gritty world of shadows and suspicion. We were two ships passing in the night, each sailing on a different sea. And yet, somehow, inexplicably, we’d found ourselves docked together, sharing a harbor, a home. But was it enough? Was this fleeting contentment what our lives were to become, or did a future of potential storms still await us?


My thoughts returned to Melinda’s initial payment, the generous upfront sum. It was enough to sustain us for several weeks, but the nagging feeling of not truly

earning it persisted. The hourly rate, a constant, insidious reminder of my own professional limitations. The case, initially expected to be straightforward, had become something else entirely, something that stretched the boundaries of my professional competence. The initial impression of a typical marital discord had morphed into something far more complex and unsettling, a mystery that wrapped around me, pulling me in like a relentless tide.


Was this my problem, the one I felt increasingly drawn to resolve? I often felt more satisfaction in the conclusion of a case, and not necessarily its financial rewards. The financial rewards were only relevant to the continuation of this lifestyle I was beginning to question. I knew, deep down, that there was something more to this than the potential for monetary gain. The thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of unraveling the complexities of human behavior, the dangerous dance between truth and deception; these were the aspects that truly captivated me. They were the reasons why I chose this path, why I continued to walk this lonely road, amidst the darkness and the shadows.


But the darkness was getting to me. It was creeping in, threatening to engulf me entirely, to swallow me whole. The night pressed down, heavy and suffocating. My initial feelings of guilt over a quickly resolved case had given way to a different kind of guilt, the gnawing sense of responsibility that came from recognizing the gravity of the situation. This wasn’t just about infidelity; this was about something far more profound, something that touched upon the very essence of human nature, the secrets we keep, the lies we tell, and the terrifying consequences of our actions.


The tension remained palpable, hanging heavy in the air like a shroud. The silence stretched, agonizing, unbroken. I watched, waiting, for the next clue, the next piece of the puzzle. The cost of the stakeout was going up exponentially, not just financially, but emotionally. What started as a simple, even mundane, job had evolved into something far more complex, a mystery that promised to be both exhilarating and potentially dangerous, a game with high stakes. And the game, it seemed, was just beginning. The shadows deepened, and with them, the unsettling feeling that I was venturing into territory that was far beyond my initial expectations. The line between professional curiosity and personal obsession was becoming increasingly blurred, and I had no idea where that would ultimately lead.

The memory flickered, a hazy snapshot in the stark contrast between the sterile brightness of my office and the shadowy suburban street where I now sat. Melinda. Her face, etched with a mixture of apprehension and determination, swam back to me. She’d arrived late that afternoon, a figure shrouded in a heavy winter coat, her breath misting in the cold air of my waiting room. The dim lighting of my office seemed to amplify her nervousness, highlighting the tremor in her hands as she clutched a worn leather purse. She’d been introduced through a mutual acquaintance, a lawyer I’d worked with on a few prior cases. Her initial reluctance to divulge details, the carefully chosen words, the veiled allusions – they’d hinted at something far more complicated than a simple case of marital infidelity.


“It’s… it’s about Paul,” she’d begun, her voice barely a whisper, as if afraid the very air might carry her secret. “My best friend’s husband. Sarah… she suspects something. Something’s not right. She’s too afraid to… to confront him herself.”


There was a hesitant pause, a brief silence broken only by the rhythmic tick of the clock on my desk. It was a sound oddly familiar to the one I was now listening to, the rhythmic ticking that filled the night here on my stakeout. The similarities between the two settings were unsettling, the echoes of that initial consultation creating a weird sense of déja vu.


“It’s not just… you know… another affair,” she continued, her voice gaining a slight measure of resolve. “It’s… different. More… dangerous.”


The word “dangerous” hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. She refused to elaborate further, merely offering a series of vague pronouncements; unusual late-night meetings, strange phone calls, and a pervasive sense of unease that permeated their otherwise seemingly stable life. She hadn’t spoken of specifics, only impressions, vague feelings, hinting at a darkness that lay just beneath the surface of their comfortable suburban existence. The fear in her eyes, however, had been palpable. It was a fear that transcended mere infidelity, a fear that spoke of something far more sinister, something that went beyond the usual marital squabbles and clandestine encounters.


She’d paid handsomely, a significant advance that far exceeded the typical retainer for a simple infidelity investigation. The money had felt… heavy, as if burdened with the weight of her anxieties, her unspoken fears. The generous payment had raised my suspicions, fueling my intuition that this was no ordinary case. It suggested there was more at stake than just catching Paul with another woman, that the truth was buried far deeper, far more elusive than a quick snapshot of infidelity.


I’d tried to draw her out, to coax more information from her, but she’d remained tightly wound, her lips sealed as if bound by an invisible oath. She spoke in coded messages, her words carefully chosen to conceal more than they revealed, her eyes constantly darting around the room as if expecting to be overheard. The overall impression was one of extreme urgency, a sense of impending doom that she couldn’t quite articulate, but that resonated powerfully with me.


The contrast between that dimly lit office, heavy with unspoken anxieties and the hushed quiet of the night outside Paul Fields’ house was stark, yet somehow fitting. Here, in the darkness, surrounded by the slumbering suburbia, I felt a similar weight of anticipation. The silence, which I’d initially found tedious, now held a different, more compelling meaning. It was a silence pregnant with secrets, a silence that vibrated with the unspoken tensions of the lives I was observing.


My eyes remained fixed on Paul’s house. The rhythmic ticking of my watch—a different watch, but the rhythm was the same, a constant companion—accompanied the sound of the crickets chirping in the nearby woods. Paul remained inside, a shadowy figure hidden behind the drawn curtains. His movements, even those few I could see, were restless, anxious. He kept pacing, checking the locks on the doors, peering out the windows as if expecting an intruder. It all fit with Melinda’s description, a feeling of being watched, of being under siege, not necessarily by a person, but by an unseen force. An unseen force that, in my growing suspicion, might be far more powerful and dangerous than just the threat of a love affair gone wrong. Perhaps Melinda herself was in danger. Perhaps Paul was, too. The initial case—infidelity—was losing its significance, becoming secondary to something else entirely. Something more complex, and infinitely more disturbing…


Check out the series below:

Private Investigations: The John Rourke Private Detective series

Private Investigations 1: A John Rourke detective Story (Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Stories) Kindle Edition Book 1 of 3: Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Stories by W. W. Watson (Author)  Format: Kindle Edition

John Rourke is a private detective with contacts and a license to practice from New York to Arizona. He has the resources he needs across the country to find the information he needs to crack the toughest cases. Ex-cops, ex-Cons, snitches, stoolies, drug addicts, criminals, drug dealers and any kind of scum of the earth you can imagine or care to name. He knows the seedy side of life and to some people that makes him indispensable…

Book one:

The chipped paint on my beat-up Ford Falcon was flaking like old skin. The smell of stale coffee clung to the interior like a cheap perfume, a constant, bitter reminder of the long hours ahead. Across the street, Paul Fields’ two-story colonial loomed, a picture of suburban perfection, a stark contrast to the cramped discomfort of my temporary office. The relentless hum of traffic on Hemlock Drive was a dull, throbbing ache in my skull, a soundtrack to this tedious ballet of surveillance. My gut churned, not from the coffee, but from the gnawing feeling that I was hemorrhaging money, bleeding my retainer dry on this seemingly pointless stakeout…

#BookWorm #Readers #KindleUnlimited #WWWatson #Crime #Noir #Mystery #PrivateEye


Private Investigations 2: A John Rourke detective Story (Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Stories) Kindle Edition Book 2 of 3: Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Stories by W. W. Watson(Author)Format: Kindle Edition J
Book 2 of 3: Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Stories
John Rourke is a private detective with contacts and a license to practice from New York to Arizona. He has the resources he needs across the country to find the information he needs to crack the toughest cases. Ex-cops, ex-Cons, snitches, stoolies, drug addicts, criminals, drug dealers and any kind of scum of the earth you can imagine or care to name. He knows the seedy side of life and to some people that makes him indispensable…

Book two:


My apartment, usually a sanctuary of quiet solitude, became a temporary forensic lab. The dining table transformed into a command center, littered with maps, photographs, financial records, and transcripts of intercepted phone calls. The air hung heavy with the scent of stale coffee and the lingering aroma of cheap takeout containers. Days bled into nights as I painstakingly organized the evidence, meticulously documenting every detail, creating a comprehensive narrative that would stand up to the scrutiny of the legal system… #BookWorm #Readers #KindleUnlimited #WWWatson #Crime #Noir #Mystery #PrivateEye


Private Investigations 3: A John Rourke detective Story (Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Stories) Kindle Edition Book 3 of 3: Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Stories by W. W. Watson(Author)Format: Kindle Edition J
Book 3 of 3: Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Stories

John Rourke is a private detective with contacts and a license to practice from New York to Arizona. He has the resources he needs across the country to find the information he needs to crack the toughest cases. Ex-cops, ex-Cons, snitches, stoolies, drug addicts, criminals, drug dealers and any kind of scum of the earth you can imagine or care to name. He knows the seedy side of life and to some people that makes him indispensable…

Book three:

The silence was broken by the distant screech of a hawk, its cry sharp and piercing against the vast silence of the desert. It was a lonely sound, a perfect metaphor for the state of my own soul. I was tired, bone-deep tired. Sleep was a luxury I couldn’t afford, nightmares a constant companion. The faces of the victims, the ones I’d found along Rieser’s trail, haunted my dreams. Each one a testament to the brutal efficiency of a man who knew how to erase his tracks… #BookWorm #Readers #KindleUnlimited #WWWatson #Crime #Noir #Mystery #PrivateEye


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