Monday and the Murdered Man

By Andrew Kirschbaum

Death came on a Monday

In a sprawling urban landscape where magic is as common as technology, Zack Monday is a hard-working private detective, street-smart, resourceful, and clever. When a dead man walks into his office to solve the mystery of his own murder, will our hero be able to track down the hard truths that no one wants found? Along the way Zack must confront thugs, corrupt cops, ghosts, undead mobsters, angels, devils, and his ex-wife.

But he won't have to do it alone; he'll get help from his partner – a half-goblin bruiser with a secret, and a slacker street-warlock whose involvement in the case is a bit of a mystery in and of itself.

Monday has never been so much fun!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Kirschbaum
• Release date: Nov 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9780984768202

Andrew Kirschbaum

Andrew Kirschbaum was born in Nebraska in 1967. Education, employment, and an overseas war kept the Kirschbaum family on the move for the next ten years, living in Nebraska, Iowa, Nevada, and Florida before settling in Massachusetts. A basic ineptitude at anything not related to reading and writing his native language led to a B.A. in English Literature from Brandeis University and a short-lived career as a technical writer. In 1991, he started 3 Trolls Games & Puzzles – a traditional board game and puzzle store in Chelmsford, MA – with his family and has been running it ever since. In 2011 he collaborated with a group of friends and family to produce Verdigris, an interactive novel for the iPhone and iPad; Monday and the Murdered Man followed shortly thereafter. He is currently working on the next Monday adventure, Monday and the Apocalypse Engine, another interactive novel, and various live action role playing games.

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Acknowledgements

This book would not have been possible without www.kickstarter.com and the generous financial assistance of the following friends, relatives, and strangers.

Thank you is not nearly enough.

Adrienne and John, Curtis Barton, Neil Bernstein, Robert Bernstein , Anna R. Bradley, Ken Brown, Sabrina Chase, Theo Clarke, Martin Clements, Colin T. Cormier, Tom Courtney, Joan Coyne, John T Coyne, Kirt Dankmyer, Hugh L. Eckert, Christopher Ernenwein, Flynn, Diana, Jason, and Cordelia Gagliardi, Jill Gandolfi, Rick Gilbert, Susan ‘the Muse’ Giusto, Geof, Deborah, Talia, and Sam, Tegan H., Scott Henshaw, Melissa Honig, Arlene Hisiger, Jim Husband, Jerico Johnston, Eileen Karsten, Alexx Kay, Kestrell, Stephen W. Kern, Lisa Kirschbaum Klein and family, Veronika Knurenko, Lisa A. Spiderbabe Lassner, Lawrence Lee, Kelly MacDougal, Duncan MacPhail, Michael McGuirk, Shelly Mohnkern, William Mullin, Miss Mina Murray, Sandee Newton, Kerry Northup, Meredith Peck, Alex Pogue, Queenortart, Gene S., Joshua Sheena, Tim Seiger, Mike Spilatro, John Swann, Ransom and Kimberly Trimble, Bruce Turner, Nic Vega, Will Wagner, Mark Wallace, Mark Waks, Nich Wattanasin, John Wedoff, Jeannie C. Whited, Zachary Wilmot, Steve Zukowski

The happy coincidence of this book being written in legible, properly punctuated and correctly spelled English with any discernible grammar at all is due entirely to the author’s editorial team and good friends: Curtis Barton, Katherine Bunting, Diana Gagliardi, Anandi Gandolfi, Nicole Geada, Lila Kirschbaum, and Rebecca Kletnieks. Any errors that managed to creep in despite their efforts are entirely the author’s fault.

This book is for my parents,

Richard and Lila Kirschbaum

For their endless and unstinting support.

Thanks for everything.

Death Came On A Monday

In a sprawling urban landscape where magic is as common as technology, Zack Monday is a hard-working private detective, street-smart, resourceful, and clever. When a dead man walks into his office to solve the mystery of his own murder, will our hero be able to track down the hard truths that no one wants found? Along the way Zack must confront thugs, corrupt cops, ghosts, undead mobsters, angels, devils, and his ex-wife. But he won't have to do it alone; he'll get help from his partner - a half-goblin bruiser with a secret, and a slacker street-warlock whose involvement in the case is a bit of a mystery in and of itself.

Monday has never been so much fun!

Chapter One

They say all the best cases start when a gorgeous but troubled lady walks into your office.  Most of my cases begin when an ugly old guy asks me to follow his young and beautiful wife.  Believe me when I tell you that the client never enjoys paying that particular bill.  Either the wife was cheating and now the guy blames me, or she wasn’t cheating and now he doesn’t want to pay me. So where was I? Oh, that’s right; the best cases begin when a gorgeous but troubled lady walks into your office.  This case wasn’t going to be like that.

This case began when a dead man walked into my office.  And not one of those elegant Eurotrash vampires, either.  This guy was a corpse.  He looked like a corpse, he smelled like a corpse, and he talked like I had imagined corpses must talk.

I wasn’t totally surprised.  I had heard about revenants, of course.  Nearly everyone in my business has since revenants are the animated dead, risen from the grave to seek justice or revenge.  Usually revenge.  Hard working private detectives like myself ran into them from time to time.  Not as often as homicide cops did, but often enough.  And as far as I was concerned, once was too often for me.

Mr. Monday, I need you to find my murderer, the murdered man groaned, moistly.

I never knew somebody could groan moistly.  Now I did.  Lucky me.  The murdered man was well-dressed, I’d give him that much.  He was wearing a sharply-tailored black pinstripe suit. His red silk tie and matching pocket square were both picture-perfect. His shoes looked expensive; they were probably Italian leather. The ensemble was - well, ‘flattering’ couldn’t be the right word, but he wore it well.  ‘Well’ for a corpse, that is. I often size a client up by his wardrobe, and in this case not looking at his face was a bonus. The revenant’s face was swollen and rotting, and when he wasn’t speaking it had an alarming tendency to relax into a rictus that could charitably be described as hideous.  

For completeness’ sake, I will reveal that I was wearing a suit, too. Mine wasn’t as expensive as his, but it was reasonably clean and freshly-pressed, a gray single-breasted affair. I have been reliably told that I look good in gray, so most of my suits end up going that way. I was clean-shaven, and my hair was short. My hair used to be brown, and still mostly was. But much like my suits, it was going gray.

I liked the fact that corpse had called me ‘Mister.’  It was nice when the clients showed respect.  That’s my name, Mr. Zachariah Monday.  Friends called me Zack.  My ex-wife called me an asshat, and bill collectors called me far too often.

The bill on the suite of offices that I rented was currently overdue. I had a modest little set-up on the 13th floor of a 23-story eyesore made of too much steel and concrete and not nearly enough glass. It suited my purposes pretty well. I had an office for myself and another for my sole employee. We had a big room we used for meetings and for impressing clients. The corpse and I were currently in my office. My employee was off somewhere earning his pay, so we were alone.

I charge $1,000 a day, sir.  And I’ll need $2,000 up front.  Plus expenses.

It was a pretty outrageous rate to demand, but I really didn’t want to take this case.  Call me prejudiced if you want, but there was a corpse in my office, and I wasn’t too excited about the idea of it becoming a regular thing for me.  I’m actually pretty ecumenical when it comes to clients; I have taken both demons and witches as clients before.  I try to avoid doing anything actually illegal.  At least I haven’t taken contracts that were outright against the law, right up front. I have been known to cut a few corners from time to time, always in the interest of providing better and more complete service to the client, of course.  This doesn’t always endear me to the police, not even the rare honest example.  Despite all of this, I was strongly considering making a policy against dead clients.  Maybe I was prejudiced after all.

Done, announced the murdered man with funereal certainty.

Damnation, now I was in for it.  Who knew dead men had so much money to throw around?

It looks like you’ve hired yourself a private detective.  I’ll need to ask you a few questions, and then I’ll get to work.  I’ll give you a full report once a week whenever convenient for you.  When the job’s done, you’ll get an itemized list of everything I’ve done and everywhere I’ve gone and exactly how I’ve spent your money.  Results are guaranteed. I never back off, and I’m good at my job.  When you hire Zachariah Monday, you get the truth, whether you like it or not. I recited the spiel well. I put all the right inflections in all the right places.  Sometimes I practiced it in front of a mirror.  First impressions are important, after all. The murdered man didn’t seem too impressed, but having never done it before, I probably wasn’t too good at judging facial expressions on a corpse.

All right, then.  Let’s get started. Have a seat. I indicated one of the leather chairs that had cost me a small fortune.  I sat in one of those rolling office chairs with the back supports that move around with you.  It wasn’t as comfortable as the leather chairs, but it was easier to work from.  Plus it made me look like I belonged behind the desk.  My desk was retro, an antique-looking wooden affair with lots of drawers and other things that pulled out and looked impressive.  I bought it off a drug dealer, so it also had lots of hidden compartments and a built-in shotgun.  You can never be too careful in my business.  The drug dealer let it go cheap; he was getting ready to flee the country at the time.  I love a motivated seller.

The murdered man indicated that he would rather stand.  I shrugged to let him know that this was fine with me and took out my trusty notebook and a cheap ballpoint pen.  I was concerned that not using a fancy expensive pen was a failure of character on my part.  I had tried expensive pens, but I’m left-handed and I always end up smearing the ink all over the page and the side of my hand.  I still smear the ink when I use a cheap ballpoint, but it doesn’t seem as bad that way. Worst case scenario, I could at least pretend to blame the pen.

Name? I asked, perfunctorily.

I have been told that my name is Paul Abel, answered the murdered man. But I don’t actually know.

I paused a moment at that, tapping the back of the pen against my lower teeth.

You don’t know your name? I asked slowly. I was beginning to get a bad feeling about this case.

I don’t remember who I was before I was murdered.  Or anything about my murder.  I only know that my body was found outside The Sunrise Club.

I stopped tapping the pen against my teeth and looked at my client.

The Sunrise Club? I asked, hoping desperately that I’d misheard him.

That’s right.  In fact, The Sunrise Club management is paying your bill.  Apparently, they have a guarantee of safety as well as anonymity for their clientele.

I started to say something when the clue dropped.  The Sunrise Club is paying my bill?

That’s right, Mr. Monday, the murdered man replied in his moist moan.

I’m working for The Sunrise Club? I asked, dumbly.

In a manner of speaking, perhaps, the murdered man said. You are working for me, but The Sunrise Club is footing the bill.  They recommended you quite highly to me.

I just bet they did.  The Sunrise Club is what’s called a Specialty House.  The downstairs is a real classy lounge. They had nice tables, polite well-dressed wait staff, live entertainment on the big stage, a 14 piece orchestra, and all the works.  Upstairs, they run the most expensive and cosmopolitan House of Ill Repute in all of New Jerusalem.  The cops won’t go near the place for fear of catching the Mayor, or the Police Commissioner or the Governor in flagrante delicto.  Very flagrante and very delicto.  You could get anything you wanted at Sunrise.  They had faeries of both genders on staff, at least one genuine vampire, incubi, succubi, and just about every other kind of bi known to man or beast.

The Sunrise was operated by Alexandra Sycorax.  She’s a real charmer.  Demoness or just bad-ass; I didn’t know for certain what her story was, and I didn’t want to know.  That knowledge couldn’t possibly be healthy for me to have.  Still, this wasn’t the end of the world.  I had been wondering how a walking corpse could have the kind of bank this guy was talking.  Now I knew.  If I kept my head down and didn’t poke my nose into anything I wasn’t hired to poke, I might just live through this case. … Yeah, right, and goblins can fly.

I kept the conversation going a little longer. I was in no rush to perform what was likely to be the most awkward and disturbing post-mortem examination in my career. Don’t get me wrong, it was okay having an available and cooperative corpse that moved around on its own volition. The murdered man had no apparent body-modesty. He stripped out of his expensive suit and emptied his pockets without hesitation. He lifted his arms, spread his legs, turned slowly and generally moved in any way I asked. When I didn’t require movement, he remained as perfectly still as any respectable corpse would. But I could feel his eyes on me the whole time. His face stayed in that rictus grin, showing no particular expression or interest, but he was always watching. It’s bad enough being watched while I examine a corpse, but it was somehow a little bit worse being watched by the corpse itself.

I’m not really a forensic expert, but I can do a post-mortem as well as most Medical Examiners. Okay, as well as some Medical Examiners. All right, almost as well as a few guys in med school. But I had gone to school for it. Detective school, not medical school, but I like to think of myself as a liberal arts kind of guy.

Limited training or not, the wounds were pretty apparent. Multiple stabs and slices, and charring around the wounds. Had someone tried to cauterize the wounds? And if so, was it the same person who’d gone to town on his victim with a big knife? Any way you look at it, somebody had a serious mad on for this guy. It looked like the murderer took his or her time, as well. I was assuming a man did the job, a beefy man from the force behind the blows; but a sufficiently-motivated woman could have done a job like this, too.

I wasn’t ruling out a non-human entity, either. In this town, you never could, at least not until there was some kind of evidence one way or another. I know a competent licensed warlock who works cheap. I usually hire him to do a quick once over on a crime scene to see if anything smells fishy. I’d have him check this one out, but with all the mojo flying around The Sunrise, I wasn’t holding out much hope.

The murdered man put his clothing back on swiftly and efficiently. I noticed a few interesting things while he did. Did I mention that I was a trained detective? He might not remember his name or where he lived, but he knew how to tie a full Windsor knot faster and better than I could, and he folded up the matching pocket square and tucked it into his pocket like he’d been doing it forever. I noticed that he left the bottom button on both his vest and coat unbuttoned. These were the sort of details that suggested two things. First off, there was nothing wrong with his muscle memory, and secondly he was well-accustomed to wearing suits, although not necessarily suits as nice as this one.

I looked up and into those expressionless dead eyes. The murdered man had caught me staring. I looked away and picked up my notebook and pen. Smooth Recovery Monday, that’s me.

I’m assuming from the lack of matching holes, I said to fill the empty space, that this isn’t the outfit they found you in. Wardrobe provided by The Sunrise?

He swiveled his head around and fixed those empty dead eyes on me again. That’s right, Mr. Monday. They still have the rags I was wearing when I was murdered. Is that important?

Important? I asked. Those rags might be the only connection we have to your life. Connections often lead to what we in the business call ‘clues’, I made air quotes with my fingers. And unless we can pile up a few of those, this is going to be a long and hard mystery to solve.

I made a few notes just to show that I had picked up the notebook for a good reason. I flipped the notebook shut, tucked it into my right-side back trouser pocket, clipped the pen into my shirt pocket, and cleared my throat with what I hoped was the appropriate gravity.

That will be all for now, sir. Where can I contact you?

They’ve offered me rooms at The Sunrise.

Of course they have, I sighed.

I bid my client, the victim, a good day and wondered if it was too early to start drinking, and if the money was really going to be worth it on this one.

Chapter Two

I kept offices in the Flood Building which was in a neighborhood popularly known as Weishaupt. Weishaupt was one of the oldest sections of the shining metropolitan jewel of New Jerusalem. The neighborhood had been very upscale, once upon a time, before hard times fell. Recently, it had become cheap enough for starving artists and working class students to live in. This brought about a small and decidedly Bohemian renaissance for venerable old Weishaupt. The buildings, now broken up into apartments and studios, were ornate in the Gothic style that the very wealthy favored in the 1920s. They might be crumbling into decay, but at least they were doing it with style.

New Jerusalem had been built – as many cities were – upon a crossroads. Unlike most cities, the crossroads were not financial or geographical, but magical. Over a dozen ley lines crisscrossed New Jerusalem. Only a few of the most advanced magical researchers fully understood what ley lines were or where they came from, but everyone knew what they did. Mystic forces surged, pulsed, and occasionally blazed up and down these lines. When the unusually large convergence had first been discovered in the early 1800s, New Jerusalem sprang up very nearly overnight, an impressive feat, given how far it was from any other settlement at the time.

Like any other city, New Jeru has seen some ups and downs. She was hit pretty hard by the crash in the late ‘80s. Things had just about come around in the last five years or so. The old girl was starting to get mentioned in the trendy magazines again. Tourism was up, and the economy was looking good again. All of this was just in time for the latest ‘downturn.’ Go figure.

Some folks said New Jerusalem was cursed. They said that the Founders had made a pact with Perdition, and nothing good would ever come out of New Jeru. Personally, I had heard stranger, badder, uglier things about the Founders, New Jerusalem, and the world in general and knew some of them to be true for a fact. Others were a load of crap. So I kept an open mind and tried to win a few for the good guys. Someone had to balance out all the strange, bad, and ugly with a little bit of strange, good, and beautiful and from time to time, that someone might as well be me.

After the corpse shambled off, I made some notes, then went to my wall safe. I spun the dial back and forth until it was unlocked and removed a little black book. I took a key out of my pocket and unlocked the book. I spoke a nonsense syllable that temporarily deactivated the charm that caused the book to burst into fire whenever it was opened. I flipped through it until I found the entry under ‘T.’ There I found the unique and highly complicated sigil that represented my friend and sometime-business contact’s True Name. I very carefully copied the sigil onto the calendar I kept on my desk. Moments later the ink began to smoke and boil, and in short order, it was completely gone. The message had been sent.

Now I needed to wait until the enchanter I knew only as ‘Tim’ bothered to check his messages. Tim had no mailing address and no phone number that I was aware of. If you didn’t already know him, he didn’t want to know you. I had known Tim for almost a decade and sometimes he still ignored me. It must be nice to be able to actively discourage work. I locked the book back up again and tucked it back inside the safe. There were other – more dangerous – names in that little black book. It was probably the most valuable thing I owned.

I was suddenly gripped with an intense and vertiginous sense of déjà vu. Had I done this before? I felt like I had gone through these exact same movements recently. I shook my head and waited for the feeling to pass. It was probably nothing.

Next, I stepped out of my office and poked my head into Baxter’s. Baxter Kline was both an employee and a good friend of mine. He was a dick like me by training and inclination. He was also terrifically good at the kind of leg work that made me want to slit my throat. He was working on some case he hadn’t told me anything about and wasn’t back yet, so I left a message on his desk.

Lastly, I went back to my office and made a telephone call to Bruno. I had to let him know I wouldn’t be able to watch ‘the MOG’ during the day for a while. Margaret Olivia Gallagher was an 8-year-old heartbreaker. Bruno Gallagher was a struggling actor and couldn’t afford a decent baby sitter. So he settled for me. I wasn’t decent either, but I worked for free and that makes up for a lot.

Gallagher residence, Bruno speaking. Bruno’s rich and musical baritone rolled out my end of the phone. For murder or mayhem, I’m your man, pay my price and name your plan!

"Don’t bother misquoting The Court Jester at me, I’m not hiring two-bit actors," I replied, grinning.

Two-bit! I assure you, Monday, I am at the very least a four-bit actor! Bruno replied in a overblown stentorian voice.

Really? I drawled back, Because last week’s clippings don’t support that claim.

Scoundrels! Blackguards and bounders! Scurrilous – Bruno was building up a pretty serious head of steam. As much as I enjoyed a bit of verbal sparring with my favorite desperate actor, I had plans for the evening.

Whoa now, Big Fella, I interrupted. Before you get all wound up, I have good news and bad news for you: I have a client.

I don’t believe it. Bruno scoffed melodramatically. Who would be foolish enough to hire you?

A dead man, I replied, matter-of-factly.

Hm. Well, I guess there’s not too much harm you can do in that case….

Ha. Ha. The bad news is the case will take a lot of leg work, and I won’t have time to MOG-watch during the day.

Can’t you get Baxter to do the real detective work like you usually do?

Again I say: Ha. Ha. There’s enough to go around. This case will need us both.

There was a moment or two of silence on the line while Bruno let that settle in.

Hm. Well, I suppose I could call The Ex. Bruno didn’t sound thrilled about calling on his ex-wife. Or maybe that adorable boy I met at Casey’s last week.

You’d trust the MOG with some himbo who slept with you on the first date?

My dear fellow, everyone sleeps with me on the first date. I am irresistible.

Whatever. You can leave her at the bus station as far as I’m concerned, I lied. She’s your kid.

If she’s kidnapped, I’ll be certain to hire Baxter to find her.

Ouch. You’re off my Christmas Card list.

You don’t send Christmas Cards, you’re Jewish.

Channukah Cards, then.

You don’t send Channukah Cards, you’re a selfish asshat.

Clearly, he’d been talking to my ex-wife.

I was going to start this year, I said haughtily. You’re off the list.

No one shall know suffering like mine.

That’s right, and don’t you forget it. Anyway, sorry about leaving you high and dry. Hopefully I’ll be able to take us all out for a nice dinner when it’s over.

I shall hold you to that, Zachariah. And I’ll tell the MOG. If it falls through, you’ll have ruined her life. No pressure, though. Just do your best.

Bruno hung up before I could give him the raspberry he so richly deserved. He’s always been jealous of my wit. Sad, really, but we enlightened few had to rise above the petty concerns of our lessers. I hung up the phone.

After typing up the sad collection of scribbles that passed for my notes on the case, I did the filing. Mostly this consisted of stacking the really over-due bills on top of the only slightly over-due bills and cramming the whole mess into an enormous folder. If the revenant paid his bill, I’d be able to wipe out the whole lot of them and maybe even get a little bit ahead. I felt quite accomplished after this. It was with the satisfaction of the truly just and deserving that I flicked off the lights, stepped into the hall, and locked up my office.

It was Date Night with Audrey and I was meeting her at the Empress Pavilion in Dragontown. If I hustled and the coach service was good to me, I’d be on time. If I was on time, it dramatically improved the odds of the evening ending up at her place for drinks after dinner.

I was making pretty good time in a sort of half-walk/half-trot, when I felt an electric pulse in my pocket. Not good. I slowed down enough to fish out my pocket watch. It was humming and throbbing and generally being annoying. The watch kept lousy time, but the warning enchantment on it was top-notch.

I looked around while trying not to look like I was looking around. Don’t try this at home, kids, I’m a professional. About a dozen yards behind me there was a guy trying to look like he wasn’t looking at me. He must have been a professional too.

If this was a well-orchestrated tail, there’d be two other guys helping him out. A good tail job has a second guy ahead of the mark, waiting to pick him up, and a third to switch in every now and then to keep the mark from noticing. It might have worked if the mark wasn’t me. I slowed down some more, pretending to take an interest in the shops I was passing.

I could try to lose them, but then they’d know that I knew they were following me. And I didn’t know why they were following me. I wanted to know that more than I wanted to lose them. The question was, did I want to know it more than I wanted Date Night With Audrey?

Best to put that particular decision off for a while, I thought. I sped up a bit, not quite as fast as I was going before, but hopefully fast enough not to be suspicious. I took an arbitrary left turn and was no longer headed directly for the coach station. I needed to play for time without spending too much of it. Also, I didn’t want to get beat up if that was where this was headed. I wasn’t a pushover in a fight, but I didn’t feel like taking on three professionals unless I absolutely had to.

The possibilities spun through my mind. They might have been following the revenant and now decided that I was a person of interest to them. It might be something to do with an old case. It could be revenge for someone I had helped put away or put down, or maybe they were looking for a secret I had uncovered. There were more than a few of those rattling around in my noggin.

It could also be something personal. There were a fair number of people who just plain didn’t like me. And, unfortunately for me, a lot of those people were pretty dangerous. I didn’t want to go hurtling down any paranoid alleys just yet, but it was best to keep an open mind. A good tail cost time and money. Somebody

Reviews for Monday and the Murdered Man

[shelleyraec · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Monday and the Murdered Man deftly melds urban fantasy with detective noir in this entertaining self published novel by Andrew Kirschbaum. Zach Monday is a private investigator whose latest client is a revenant, a man raised from the dead bent on avenging his own murder. Unusually the revenant can’t remember who he is, nor the circumstances leading to his death and wants Monday to find out. Despite his distaste for his clients rotting flesh, Zach agrees to take the case only to find himself in the midst of conspiracy, corruption, a mob war and a battle between heaven and hell. But Zachariah Monday never backs off until he has the truth, results guaranteed.The world in which Monday lives is populated by a mix of humans, goblins, faeries and a raft of other mythical creatures. It is an alternative Earth, also known as the Fifth world, where magic is as commonly used as technology. The author has created a alternative world that is inventive and interesting and he builds it naturally throughout the narrative. Germane to this novel is the war between the Goblins and Faeries that has been transformed into ‘The Game’ a televised event of individual fights between the two races. The death of ‘Freakshow’, one of ‘The Game’s’ most popular Goblin fighters, at the hands of the Prince of Faery becomes relevant to Monday’s investigation when he stumbles across a new street drug known as Passion. The plot is actually quite complex, as Monday pieces together the clues to identify his client and his murderer he is drawn into an illegal drug manufacturing ring, a mob turf war, sport fixing and the evil plans of the Duke of Sorrows. Throw in time travel, magical disguises,a touch of romance and plenty of action, and Monday and the Murdered Man is a terrific read.Monday has the air of a cynical, tough guy ‘gumshoe’, and his personality merges surprisingly well such a fantastical environment. Quick witted, handy with his fists and willing to take risks he doesn’t back down, even against overwhelming odds. As a human surrounded by magical creatures, Monday has to be clever and resourceful, though being human doesn’t exclude him from the use of magic in the form or runes, charms and packaged spells. For back up he relies on his half goblin business partner, Baxter, and an eccentric warlock, Tim.Imaginative, well written and entertaining, I really enjoyed Monday and The Murdered Man and I hope that Kirschbaum is already working on a second. If the combination of urban fantasy and detective novel appeals to you at all I urge you to take a chance on this novel – its well worth the gamble.