The Thomas Blume Series: Books 1-4: Thomas Blume

By Phil Reade

An ex-cop with a past. Four gripping stories. One breakneck ride...

This Limited edition collection includes the first four books in the acclaimed Thomas Blume series.

If you enjoy thrilling action, captivating characters and plots that keep you guessing then you'll love this box set from breakout author Phil Reade.

 

HARD FALL

An ex-New York cop, now working as a freelance investigator in London; Thomas Blume searches for the killers that tore his family apart. For justice, for closure, for revenge.

But when Blume stumbles across a case that baffled police, he unwittingly becomes part of a world full of criminals, thugs and corrupt cops that will do anything to stop him.
Now, in a country he doesn't understand and a city stacked against him, Blume must fight to expose the truth…

Discover the first book in the Thomas Blume series today! 


 

SNOW BURN

A hacker, a body and a mystery that goes right to the top...

Thomas Blume is back, and this time he's deep in a case that could shake the very foundation of the country.

Hired to find a hacker with shocking government secrets, Blume works to find the man, and stop the leak.
But when the bodies start piling up and everyone in the city seems out to get him, Blume must battle against the odds and team up with a new ally if he is to survive.

In an investigation that will take him from swanky nightclubs to rundown factories and the very heart of British government. Can Blume crack the case and uncover the truth behind the fate of his family?


 

RED HUNT

She is beautiful... But is she a killer?

When sultry model Christina Bishop is discovered unconscious next to the body of her manager, all fingers point to her as the suspect. 
Accused of murder, she disappears into the London underworld, leaving behind her frantic boyfriend and angry police. 

Thomas Blume is hired to find Christina and prove her innocence, but not before a shocking turn of events leaves him wondering if he is chasing a ghost. 
Now, Blume must face the demons of his own past and battle through the bright lights and dark secrets of the city as he races to reach Christina before the Police. 

In a case where nothing is as it seems, can Blume get to the bottom of the case and find the real killer?


 

CROSS FIRE

When ex-New York Detective Thomas Blume is asked to play bodyguard at a high-class London party he figures that it should be a night of easy money and free booze.

But easy and free are never what they seem...

The sudden disappearance of two girls throws the night into chaos and now lives are at risk.
One girl is the daughter of wealthy local industrialist Andrew Hyde… the other, the daughter of his close friend Amir.

Why were they taken? And how does it all connect to Blume's investigation of his family's murder?

Now Blume must use all his skills in a race against time to track down the girls and find the kidnappers before it's too late...


 

Get your copy now!

Tags: hard boiled mysteries, mystery, mysteries, noir, private investigators, hard boiled thriller, hard boiled detective fiction, hard boiled private investigator mystery series

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phil Reade
• Release date: Feb 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781519951946

Book preview

The Thomas Blume Series

The Thomas Blume Series

Books 1-4

Phil Reade

HARD FALL

A Thomas Blume Book

Prologue

I was dead.

My body just hadn’t realized it yet.

I tried to climb to my feet, but the muscles in my arms had given up long ago and I collapsed to the rain-soaked dirt. The comfortable numbness of defeat welcomed me.

Get down!

As I lay still, thunder rumbling and icy droplets stinging my face, I stared at the twisted form of death above me, and I knew the painful truth—this was it. All of my searching, all of my fighting, was for nothing. I’d have laughed if I could have summoned the energy.

The voices returned, calling for me to surrender my struggle against the inevitable, dragging me from consciousness.

"Give it up!" the voices echoed.

I glanced at the bitter rain clouds as colored stars wheeled overhead and time slowed to a crawl. The monster lifted his arm to finish it, and swung the weapon at my head, beckoning me into the beyond.

"Blume!"

It all went black.

Chapter One

Two Weeks Earlier…

They call it autumn here.

---

I stared through the rain-slicked glass at the exterior of the cheap hotel, trying to ignore the enticing weight of the hip flask in my jacket. At only 1:30 in the afternoon, it was certainly too early to start drinking. Not that the time would have stopped me, but I needed to be at least a little sharp for what was to come. The best idea I came up with to curb the craving was to check out my notes for the latest lame-ass job I’d scraped together from the poor sap only a shade more desperate than me.

Parked on the far end of the lot, my car faced the hotel office and the majority of the rooms. A walkway—painted a melancholy shade of hospital green—connected them all. The tone of the place and the drizzle gave the Newham Inn a heavy air of sadness.

I studied the building for a while, trying to understand the allure for its customers. Dropping down money to stay in a room where the dregs of humanity had stayed before me didn’t seem the least bit appealing.

A flicker of reflection in the rearview mirror caught my eye. The steel blue eyes and hard features of my father stared back. The dark hair now streaked with gray was pure Mom. The rest of the unfortunate state was down to me.

Thomas Blume: respected New York Police Detective, decorated hero, widower, loser.

With a sigh, I sat forward and waited. The rain teased the roof, just hard enough to make that hypnotic beat—a noise that made me realize how badly I needed some shuteye. I didn’t know why fatigue gripped me, maybe it was the booze. I certainly hadn’t done much in the way of exercise over the previous week.

I once read that people with jobs behind cubicles—the cogs in the corporate machine staring at computers all day—could become more fatigued than those in manual labor. Something about the screen did it to them. If that were the case, I figured sitting in a rain-streaked London parking lot, eyeballing a shady-looking joint like the Newham Inn could do the same to a guy.

Maybe I’d read it in USA Today or New Scientist, during a stakeout on another place like this. Who knew?

The memory refused to materialize, and either way, it didn’t matter. I had a job to do and needed to stay alert.

Then the smoke curled inside me again, the need for a drink twisted my insides, beckoning that sweet comforting fog of numbness, but the haze was quickly burned away by the familiar pangs of anger.

My old man had died with a dependency on booze, and I had spent my whole life trying to avoid ending up the same way. Last thing in the world I wanted was to end up like my dad, and here I was making the same mistakes he did. The move to London had done it. Drinking was the only way I knew how to cope with the pain plaguing me.

The memory of that night haunted me. It constantly dragged my mind back to a life, a happiness that was no longer mine. What happened to them had hollowed me out, eaten away at me like a slow creeping cancer, until all I had was this grimy excuse for a life. Death had followed me ever since.

Now, here I was on the other side of the pond, in a city I was rapidly growing to hate. Picking up crappy jobs like this just to get by.

When the silver Mercedes pulled up, momentary relief flooded in. The tormenting thoughts vanished in a brief wash of adrenaline. I was nothing if not dedicated. Once, I’d had a promising career with the NYPD, and the sense of honor, dignity, and perseverance still lived within me. Somewhere. Even for a joke of a job like this one, I had that sense of duty.

Yes, I hated these little nickel and dime ‘favors,’ but work was work … and I had always done every job I’d ever had with as much professionalism and dedication as I could muster.

The silver car parked on the other side of the lot, and the portly driver climbed out, heading directly for the hotel office. Mid-forties, with thinning brown hair and a goatee, he wore an expensive but bland suit. When he stepped inside, I looked to the Mercedes again and could make out the shape of another person in the passenger seat. I knew who it was. This could very well be the easiest assignment I’d ever had. Half a day on the job, and I was about to get paid in record time.

Moments later, the driver stepped out of the office and signaled to his companion. The Merc’s passenger door opened, and a curvy woman stepped out. She held up a gaudy umbrella. As it fanned open, it hid her face.

Damn, I muttered.

The couple headed down the short breezeway connecting the rooms. They stopped at the second-to-last entrance, and the man unlocked the door, letting the woman in first. She closed her umbrella, but I was still unable to see her face. The man shook the rain from his jacket and paused at the entrance, glancing around furtively. For a second, worry set in that he’d noticed my surveillance, but luckily, my targets were more interested in the inside of the room. Apparently satisfied, Mr. Goatee smiled in anticipation before following the woman inside, slamming the door behind him.

Grabbing my digital camera from the small bag on the passenger seat, I powered it up. Cameras had always made sense to me. In fact, photography was one of the few remnants of my old life I clung to. The simplicity of frame and shoot was somehow comforting.

I also took out a stick of gum, pushed it into my mouth and started chewing slowly in an effort to bury my need for a drink.

The last time I’d taken a woman into a cheap hotel room had been during college—easily twenty years ago. Unless things had changed in the realm of social conventions, there was nothing new to getting laid in a place like this. I doubted they would spend much time talking about the weather or pointing out the lack of decorating expertise in the people that had thrown this shabby dive together. I figured that, in the minute and a half they had been in the room, they would already be halfway to doing the horizontal Mamba.

With the Canon Eos under my leather jacket, protected from the rain, I climbed from the car and took my time strolling across the parking lot. The steady October drizzle lightly cooled my head. There was something almost pleasant about it. I made a mental note, trying to put a few items in the positive column for London. So far, the negative column was winning by a long shot.

At the breezeway, I stopped and looked around. No one else appeared around the parking lot or the corridor and really, who would, at 1:30 in the afternoon on a wet Wednesday? The realization hit me hard and made me feel a wave of depression, so familiar since the events six months earlier.

Moving on, I passed the tiny windows and the doors and briefly thought of all of the fragments of lives that had taken place inside those soulless rooms. Passion, lust, anger, and a healthy dose of deception; something about it was almost poetic, in an Edgar Allan Poe sort of way. I let the thought fade out. I did not want to carry on down that path, and poetry leaves me cold.

The penultimate window. I stopped, checked the camera, and looked through the glass. The shades were drawn, but there was enough of a break between the flimsy curtains to see the faintest stirrings of what was going on inside. It appeared that I had been correct. It had taken less than five minutes for them to strip and get down to business.

Seeing an eyeful of the portly man’s bare ass thrusting up and down didn’t exactly do it for me though. In fact, my breakfast almost made a re-appearance against the glass. It didn’t help when one of the woman’s hands reached around and cupped a buttock. I grimaced, chewing my gum harder.

I’m not getting paid enough for this.

After checking the breezeway again, I pressed the camera up to the window and waited for a shot. Once the couple got into a rhythm, I snapped some pictures but needed a clear image of the woman’s face. A few times it almost came into frame, as their bodies shifted, particularly when she was on all fours on the edge of the bed.

The cop in me also caught a line of cocaine on the chipped table in the corner. The deadbeat in me didn’t give a crap.

The camera’s view screen told me that, while I managed to get three perfect shots of the woman’s breasts, her face was either blemished by the window’s glare or partially covered by an elbow, her hair, or the sheets that her head had been pushed into.

Sighing, I pocketed the camera. Really, I had been sure it would come to this. No surprise, just… a sense of defeat.

Resigned, I walked over to the door and steadied myself for a moment. As I stood there, I could hear the woman moaning in ecstasy on the other side. She either really enjoyed it or was going above and beyond to make the man think she really enjoyed it.

A healthy dose of deception.

A hard kick opened the door as effectively as any key. It flew open easily enough, the chain flying halfway across the room and the frame cracking almost all the way down to the floor. I wondered whether the hourly rate for the room would cover the damage.

The man and the woman both yelled at the commotion. Comically, though, it had not startled them enough to disengage themselves from one another. I grinned at them and then took out my camera.

Before the woman had a chance to hide her nakedness or the man could say a single word, I brought the camera up.

Say, ‘seedy motel room,’ I said.

It took two clicks for them to understand what was going on. The woman pushed the man off of her and scrambled to the edge of the bed. All of her modesty was forgotten as she looked at me with pleading eyes, half-dazed with the cocktail of hormones and drugs running through her body.

No, she said. Please.

The pictures on the view screen told me I had more than enough to fulfill my contract.

Thanks. As you were, I said, and placed the ‘please make up room’ card on the door handle.

I turned my back on the two and headed towards the parking lot. The man yelled after me, but I doubted he would pursue. Overweight, he looked like a soft middle manager with an easy office job, not exactly the confrontational type. Besides, he was buck naked. Not many folks would be eager to run across a rain-slicked parking lot with no clothes on.

I had already cranked the engine to life by the time the woman reached the broken door, wrapped in a sheet. She screamed for me to stop, but I paid her little attention. She was pretty—about 150 lbs., long blonde hair, and breasts too perfect to be real. I wondered what had driven her to this. Beyond that, I pitied the man she was with and more so, the man I would be meeting in about an hour.

As I pulled out of the lot, I looked back and saw her staring at me, crying in the rain. The man stood behind her like some idiot, naked sentinel.

Hearts were going to be broken over this, but that wasn’t my problem. I was already thinking about how I would spend the money coming to me. I’d have it within two hours and in three, I’d be at the Black Swan pub down the street.

The hotel parking lot left my rearview. All that remained was the dreary East London suburb… and the pain. I needed a drink, but one man needed the photographs more.

Chapter Two

Anthony Taylor was broken.

---

Ninety minutes later, I sat in the cramped office space that doubled as my apartment, looking across the cluttered desk at the man I had just destroyed. He was quiet, sitting in my guest chair and looking up at the ceiling as if he were waiting for it mercifully to collapse on top of him. I followed his gaze, but for a different reason. Water stains marked the ceiling, and in a few places, fissures ran like stray hairs along the plasterwork. The office was a dump—as reflected in the cheap rent—but it contained all the equipment I needed for the little work I could find.

When Anthony started to cry, I wasn’t surprised. I knew he would. Although a well-to-do stockbroker with a sharp suit and more money in his savings account than I would ever see in my entire life, he was still a man. A man to pity.

The other divorce cases I’d worked had ended the same way. Anger first, followed by grief as powerful as a family bereavement. Sadness next. It was as though the two emotions towed one another, the anger speeding forward to the surface with the sadness lurking in its wake.

Anthony had skipped the rage. He had known it was coming, but when he saw the pictures of his wife bent over naked in front of another man, a twist of pleasure on her face and a smile on her gasping mouth, the sorrow and heartache had come right away, like rising waves from his soul.

Close to hysterics, the poor man cried his heart out. I should have interjected somehow. It would have been the kind thing to do. But I was hardly one to offer advice on emotional stability. Hell, I had no idea where to even start. So, I watched and waited for him to pull his shit together. After all, this was just another off-the-books favor. There was no room or reason for me to get overly sympathetic.

It took a while, but Anthony finally came around. He wiped his eyes and pushed the photographs back over to me.

Sorry, he said. That was embarrassing.

I’ve seen worse, I replied. It was a lie. Anthony Taylor had fallen to pieces right in front of me, and I wouldn’t forget the image anytime soon.

So, who’s the guy?

I shrugged. I have no idea.

Could you find out? If I paid you more money, could you find out?

I rubbed my chin. Three days growth of beard had begun to itch, but I didn’t scratch. I used the designer stubble as a prop. Camouflage. The question on the tip of my tongue was How much more? But I swallowed it and shook my head. No. I mean, I probably could, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.

Name your price, Anthony said, sitting forward and trying his best to look all businesslike, but the puffy red eyes and glistening snot under his nose betrayed the attempt.

I can’t help, I said. Sorry.

Anthony stood quickly and looked as though he wanted to take a swing at me. For the briefest of moments, I wanted him to. I probably deserved it; punishment for my sins. Besides, I was looking for an excuse to knock someone’s lights out. I’d just been feeling that way for a few weeks.

Why won’t you help me? he snapped.

What good will it do you if I find out who he is? I fired back. What are you going to do? Rough him up? Use it as ammo against your wife? Trust me. I’ve been doing this for too long. It won’t do you any good. You might feel better for a few days, but eventually, you’ll regret it.

He still fumed, but his posture relaxed. After a few seconds, he collapsed back into the chair in defeat and rubbed at his temples. I don’t know, he said. I don’t know what I would do. I just wanted … I don’t know …

Look, I said. Sleep on it. Think about what you’d actually do if you knew who the guy is. It’s for the best.

He gave a nod and climbed back to his feet, looking dazed, like a sleep-walker. He stumbled to the door and gave me a half-hearted wave. Perhaps I should have said something … anything, to lift his spirits. But the pictures he had paid me to take, the information he had paid me to collect … it had leveled him.

Besides, what was I going to say: "It’s been a pleasure ruining your life?"

Never again, I decided. I’m done with these jobs.

All I could come up with though, was, I’m sorry.

Anthony paused, offered a thin, humorless smile and walked out through the door.

When it closed behind him, I eyed the envelope he handed me when he entered my office. I looked through, thumbing the seven hundred pounds. I felt dirty … but not dirty enough to give it back.

The thirst was still there, a nebulous smoke at the fringes, calling to me as it so often did when life became complicated.

Within seconds, the cash was out, folded, and placed in my front pants pocket. I locked the apartment, glad to be heading out for the day because the gloomy place was suddenly depressing the hell out of me.

The rain had turned from speckled patches to a steady downpour. Heading down the winding London streets on auto-pilot, I made for my sanctuary, to deal with my disquiet the best way I knew how, the only way I knew how.

As it turned out, the thought of Anthony Taylor’s despair wouldn’t leave me alone despite my best intentions. It hovered over me while I downed a Scotch at the Black Swan pub on the corner of the street near my apartment. The idea of what he might be feeling fueled my need to refill the glass. Well, it was partly that and partly the fact that I was missing my wife and son. Anthony’s whole situation was making my loss so much worse.

After a few drinks, I paid my tab and wound my way along twisting roads and cobbled alleyways back to my apartment, a shabby two-room deal situated above a Middle-Eastern restaurant in Central Hackney. The apartment always smelled like bread and some sort of spice—coriander maybe, or clove. The office lay at the front of the apartment, separated from the rest of the place by a slim room divider that was little more than a stiff curtain standing in the center of the living room.

I sat in my tattered recliner, sipping on a tumbler of whiskey that I had no taste for, but it seemed fitting, nonetheless. The glass was a comforting sensation in my hand.

Sarah and Tommy filled my thoughts. How they had been taken from me and how that event had set the course for the rest of my life. Everything changed in a New York minute. I was a different man now, living a different life in a different world. And men like Anthony Taylor affected me more than they used to.

The stockbroker and his cheating spouse weighed heavy on my mind that night. I almost reconsidered his follow-up offer of finding the man sleeping with his wife, but nothing good lay down that path, for either of us.

No, I’m done with that.

I decided to let it go and focus on my real reason for being in this country. And, as I fell asleep in the recliner, lured into a restless doze by the rain rattling against my windows, one thought remained in my head.

I was in London to find a killer.

Chapter Three

The months weighed heavily.

---

The bright sun bursting through open curtains woke me early the next morning. Not that I’d have slept much longer. I wake early most mornings. If I sleep more than five hours, I’m useless the next day. It probably came down to my body’s confusion. In New York, my go-to drug of choice had been caffeine. Sarah always called me the Man with the Styrofoam Hands because I always seemed to have a cup of bitter precinct coffee in my palm.

Sarah …

A quick breakfast of dry toast and coffee followed. A reminder to buy some butter, too. I brushed my teeth and ran a hand over my jaw.

Jesus, I felt like crap.

I’d once been called handsome, by a female D.A. back in New York. The boys in the precinct had found it hilarious. But those days were just a memory now. Echoes of former glory etched by history, my face was worn by deep creases. I wasn’t the man I used to be, and even he wasn’t up to much.

Moving into the stale-smelling office, memories of the day before hit me hard.

I looked outside and opened the window a crack, breathing in the cool, moist atmosphere that always seemed to pervade the English capital. People coming and going everywhere, surrounded by the morning smells of London—baking bread, tea and coffee, car exhaust, and the after-scent of rain. In the distance, tower blocks clawed at the gray sky. Beneath my window, a narrow street crowded with hustling couriers and black taxis signaled the start of another day.

It was all pleasant enough. I wanted it to sway me from my somber mood.

I’d been in this dark place for a while. Most people told me that the best way to overcome it was to think of the great memories I had of Sarah and Tommy, but trying to do that only reminded me of how badly I missed them.

My family had been brutally murdered on the wrong side of the world, and I had come to London with the express purpose of finding out what had happened. Six months later, the same thoughts still burned in my mind.

Murdered.

Even now I could barely believe it was true, or perhaps some part of me just didn’t want to accept that I’d lost the only two people in the world who made my life worth living.

Remorse ambushed me again when I recalled the events.

Against my better judgment, Sarah had taken a job in London, while I had remained in New York to finish my night course at Columbia University. Gunning for Lieutenant, the advanced forensics qualification had been my ticket to promotion.

God help me, I’d encouraged Sarah to go for the interim Editor position. I’d even agreed to her taking Tommy over the summer to see her home country. I had. Me. I had sent my wife and son 3,500 miles away for a temporary situation.

Now they were dead, and there was nothing temporary about it. They were never coming back.

The night I found out is seared into my memory. I can’t forget. I won’t forget. Every time I close my eyes to rest, he’s there again as though it’s happening afresh. A knock at the door. An officer’s voice on the other side.

"Detective Blume? I’m afraid I have some bad news."

The memories threatened to break me again. I collapsed into the chair behind my desk, desperate for a distraction that didn’t come in a bottle. The booze was so often my greatest ally and worst enemy rolled into one. The first touch magic, the last, an angry punch to the gut.

Glancing around, the tiny office space looked quaint enough, cluttered with papers, files, magazines, and folders. The beat-up laptop on my desk should have been euthanized years ago; I had no idea how it had survived this long … at least seven years. I sat behind it, but rather than power it up, I reached for my digital camera, still sitting in the middle of the desk from yesterday’s meeting with Anthony.

Frame and shoot.

Scrolling through the pictures it became clear that I did indeed have a few photographs of the man with the goatee. I studied him. A little overweight, and very pale. The suit confirmed my earlier assumption that the guy probably worked in an office. If I wanted to, I could doubtless track him down. I’d start by asking the desk clerk at the hotel and then—

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. Not wanting any visitors to see Anthony’s wife in such a compromising position, I clicked off the camera and answered.

Two men stood stiffly in the hallway, holding up Police IDs. Detectives and, as was my habit, I found myself sizing them up right away.

The warrant cards looked real. Detectives Ian Fairbanks and Craig Welsh.

Mr. Blume? Fairbanks asked. Tall but not muscular, he wore a mustache that could have been chiseled on. The creases around the eyes made me think he did a lot of squinting into the sun. He must have found it on his vacations. I hadn’t seen the yellow orb for months.

That’s me, I said. What can I do for you?

There’s a situation we hope you can provide some answers to, Welsh said. This one was bulky but looked like he had done a lot of drugs during high school. It was clear from his slack, pock-marked face. He reminded me of a dog, but I couldn’t remember which type.

Turner and Hooch—my new best friends. They looked at me as though I was going to invite them in.

I didn’t.

What situation is that? I asked.

Mr. Blume, do you know a man by the name of Anthony Taylor?

Alarms screamed in my head, but I tried not to let it show. I do, I answered, keeping my tone nonchalant, relaxed.

Mr. Taylor committed suicide last night.

Jesus, I muttered, as guilt hit me again.

Is there anything else I can screw up?

A note in his planner says he met with you yesterday, Fairbanks said. As you were an acquaintance of his, we thought we’d check to see what, exactly, you were meeting about?

That’s private information, I said, but a part of me knew they’d tear that defense to shreds … which they did, promptly.

He killed himself and, as far as we know, you are the last person to see him alive. You know that the privacy shite won’t work here, Welsh said. This ain’t America!

They were right, and all I could do was shrug.

He thought his wife was cheating on him but didn’t have the courage to confront her about it, I informed them. I stepped in front of the doorway, making sure they knew damn well that I wasn’t going to invite them in. Yes, they were just doing their job but, for a reason I could not explain, I had a sense of responsibility for Anthony … not with what he had decided to do, but in the personal ramifications of working with him.

And? Welsh continued.

And he turned out to be right. I presented him with the evidence yesterday.

Evidence?

Yeah, I said. Pictures.

The two cops shared an expression that enraged me … an expression that basically translated to: Get a load of this worthless son of a bitch. And damn it if I didn’t agree with them.

You didn’t think there would be repercussions? Fairbanks glared.

No. I’ve helped a few people with these kinds of things. There’s always some anger and regret, but it comes to one of two conclusions. The cheated spouse either leaves or the marriage mends itself.

I see. How long you been living in London now? Welsh flicked through a notebook and glanced at me.

Who said I was living here?

The taller detective smiled. We ran your name through our system. You entered the UK on April the sixteenth. Never returned to the United States. At least not on the record. So, unless we’re mistaken, you’ve been here for almost half a year.

It’s a long visit, I said.

Aye, Welsh nodded along. I’ll say. I’m just curious, Mr. Blume. Where you been stayin’ during this long visit, here?

I don’t have to tell you that.

Of course you don’t, said Fairbanks. But, if you chose not to, we would be obliged to imagine you aren’t staying anywhere. Which means you’re a vagrant.

A foreign vagrant, his partner added.

And that’s not good.

Not good at all.

"Course if you are staying somewhere, we don’t have to worry about that."

I sighed, looking from one to the other, scowling at each in turn. Finally, I told them the truth and motioned at the shoddy apartment behind me.

Now, the first cop went on, of course since you are staying here, paying a monthly rent and all, you are in fact in violation of the travel visa on which you entered the country.

I shook my head. You asshole.

I’m afraid you can probably guess what we do to visitors who violate their visas, can’t you?

When I said nothing, Welsh answered for me. We deport them. He grinned and fluttered his fingers at me. Bye-bye. Back to ’Merica.

I stared at them, my heart frozen. They couldn’t deport me; I still had work to do here. I needed to solve Sarah and Tommy’s murder. Lord knew, if these two clowns were examples of the UK’s finest, there was no hope otherwise.

It was down to me. I had to stay.

Come on, I mumbled.

Sorry, mate. Fairbank’s smug smile made me want to tear out his throat. Just doing our job,’ he said. Maybe next time you overstay your welcome somewhere you’ll be smart enough to stay out of trouble."

You don’t understand, I insisted. I used to be a cop. If you—

No, you don't understand, the tall detective cut in. According to the Border Agency, if you ain’t got a job in two weeks, it’s back across the pond for you. Got it?

Maybe you could become a photographer? his partner chimed in, his tone dark with sarcasm. How much did Anthony Taylor pay you for those pictures anyway?

This conversation is over, gentlemen, I said.

I slammed the door in their faces, and I waited a moment, sure that they would knock again, but they clearly decided to leave me alone. I could hear their muffled voices and footfalls echoing back down the corridor and to the steps beyond. They had no evidence of my wrongdoing, and for now, they couldn’t charge me with anything.

Shaking, I stormed to my desk and snatched up the camera. Then, without realizing what I was doing, I slammed it down on the desk and roared with anger. When it did not break, I threw it hard to the floor. It cracked into pieces, the lens popping out and the body splintering.

I stood for a moment trembling, as rage and grief washed over me.

It’s not your fault, Sarah’s voice finally whispered to me. My own words would have heaped on more and more guilt. And I’d have deserved it. But, as always, Sarah’s was the voice of reason. Not your fault…

Deflated, I collapsed into my chair and fired up my computer. I had nothing to do, but I desperately wanted to use my time in some way other than occupying real estate at the pub.

Anthony Taylor was dead and, if Welsh and Fairbanks had their way, within two weeks the Border cops would be back, and I wouldn’t be able to keep them out. They’d bundle me on the first plane back to America, flying away from any hope of justice for my family.

I couldn’t leave this country. Not yet. I had a job to do.

I started by opening my browser and shopping for a new camera. I had fourteen days to get it together, or everything was lost.

Chapter Four

A comfortable betrayal.

---

A few days after Turner and Hooch came by my office and tried to suffocate me with a guilt trip about Anthony Taylor, I got another loud knock on my door. I was taking practice shots with my new camera, getting used to the zoom, flash, and adjusting the settings.

A hangover fogged my brain, a souvenir from the night before. It had been a long, rough session—one of those where the memories of lost loved ones took the form of demonic poltergeists, haunting my apartment and forcing me to remain in limbo between sleep and consciousness.

The door was my enemy. I scowled at it, somehow certain that this would be the two cops again. Maybe they found my name somewhere else in Anthony’s personal belongings.

I almost didn’t answer it but figured that would be stupid. The apartment couldn’t hide me forever. A wooden door wouldn’t hold back cops for long. I’d proven that at the hotel. Not that I was a cop any longer.

To my relief, a short but muscular man in his forties stood in the hallway, not the two cops. He had intense eyes and thinning midnight black hair, matching his closely cropped beard. Most people would have been alarmed by his intimidating appearance, but I knew differently. Amir Mazra was one of the kindest and most insightful men I’d met in London. He owned the restaurant below and originally hailed from Iran or Oman or Jordan, somewhere. He never had told me, and I knew next to nothing about that part of the world. About the Middle East.

Hey Amir, I said.

Thomas. Come on. Let’s have lunch.

Downstairs? I asked, looking to the floor. No offense, but I smell it every day. It’s delicious, but I’ve had my fill.

Fine, he said. Let’s go out. Your choice.

What’s the occasion? I asked.

He thought about this for a moment and answered slowly. I haven’t seen much of you lately, he said. And when I have, it’s usually watching you go past the fire escape window, stumbling up the steps.

Is this an intervention? I asked him, laughing without humor.

No. It is an invitation to lunch from a man that hopes you see him as a friend.

I nodded, reminded of how well Amir was able to push bullshit to the side and get straight to the heart of the matter. In a way, he was the only living connection I had to the city.

Steak? I said, suddenly realizing that I was, in fact, starving.

Fine, but turn the lights off, Amir said. Don’t waste electricity.

I looked back into my office and flicked the switch. You’re my landlord, I said, not my Mommy.

Yes, but saving money on electricity will help you stop taking crappy jobs like the one with Anthony Taylor.

You heard about that, huh?

He nodded. Come on. Let’s eat.

You’re not the only one with problems, Amir said, as we finished a very average meal. He leaned back, sipping from a glass of water while I considered something stronger than the bottle of beer in my hand.

You have something on your mind other than me, Amir?

It’s just my son, Jamal, you know. He’s a good boy, smart, too smart. I love him very much, he means the world to me, despite all of the trouble he causes.

Jamal in trouble, that doesn’t sound right. He’s a good kid, keeps his head down from what I hear.

At school, yes, Jamal is a model student. He is always respectful and helpful, excellent grades. His trouble is much bigger than most kid his age. Did you know I had to take away his computer?

You know Amir … most kids his age … they get curious …

Amir shook his head and chuckled. It’s not that, no. I wish it were. I got a warning letter from the ISP, Blume.

Your internet provider?

Most teenagers, they use the internet to chat with friends, watch silly videos, look at pictures … not my Jamal. He’s always been good with computers, I just didn’t realize how good.

He’s been misbehaving?

Amir nodded solemnly. Turns out he got involved with some online group. Some kind of digital activists or hackers, I believe. They challenge each other to see how far they can go, how many levels of security they can infiltrate. It’s all fun and games until the police come knocking at the door.

Tell me about it, I said But I didn’t realize Jamal was a hacker. That takes smarts. Maybe he could use his tech skills for something better, get him designing software, solving problems.

Amir nodded. But how?

You’re asking me for advice? I teased. A washed-up detective who can’t even find a cheating spouse without screwing things up?

A fine detective, Amir corrected. If you give yourself a chance.

I sighed. The hackers’ world is a couple of generations beyond me, but, back on the force, I worked with some guys in Computer Division, Cybercrimes. I can put the feelers out, get some advice.

That would be appreciated, and for the record, it’s not your fault, what happened with Taylor.

Whatever. I’m done with domestic cases, I said, getting to the crux of things. The comment was random, a stark change of subject, but I knew why Amir had wanted to have lunch. He was checking up on me, plain and simple.

Good, Amir said. I’m glad. But can I ask why?

"Well, what if my little discovery did push Taylor to kill himself? Without the work I did for him, would he ever have gotten the proof?"

Without you, he would have gone to someone else. You can’t do that to yourself. Why pile on more guilt? You’re carrying enough of that already, don’t let it poison you. Besides, I thought you came to London to relieve the grief, figure things out. Not to add to it.

Yeah, that was the plan.

A young waiter came by and took our plates. He also brought me a third beer. Amir glanced at it sadly but waited for the waiter to leave before asking, Thomas, are you okay?

Yes.

That’s a very bad lie.

You’d prefer a good one?

I’d prefer the truth. Why do you continue to do this to yourself? All you do is drink and look at those pictures of Sarah and little Tommy. Neither of those things will bring them back, so why do you put yourself through this?

I have to.

The tragedy of all this, my friend, is that you don’t. Go home to New York, find help. There’s nothing for you in London anymore.

I swallowed some beer, washing down the last bite of steak, and looked Amir in the eyes. I need to know who did this to them.

And all this excessive drinking? You think this will help your investigation?

I grimaced. I sleep better when I’m loaded, I said, avoiding his sympathetic stare. The dreams seem to go away. And when I’m awake, the memories don’t hurt as bad if I’m drinking.

"So, this isn’t a purposeful self-destruction? You are self-medicating?"

You could say that.

He looked to me with the unconditionally loyal eyes of a close friend. Ever since I had saved his sister, Amir had treated me like family. He joked that we had become soul brothers because I had unintentionally followed him across the globe when business had brought him to London. I didn’t know you were a doctor, Thomas, he finally said.

I frowned, knowing he was right. I’d never solve Sarah or my son’s case if I kept drinking the days away. I think I have been purposefully putting it off, I muttered.

What’s that?

I’ve just been reviewing these case files over and over again. I haven’t been making any forward progress. You’re right. If I want to find the killer I need to kick the drinking, shape myself up. Then I can start for real.

Amir sighed, disappointed. And then where will you be? Still obsessed with your past. Do you think Sarah would want to see you this way? No, she would want you to move on. Focus on your present; your future.

Not that I had much future. At least not in London. Even if the cops didn’t deport me, the money would run out soon. I needed to figure out how to earn some real cash. Still, the thought of letting Sarah and Tommy’s case grow cold made me hate myself. No, I shook my head. This is too important.

Why? Amir demanded. Why is it important to chase the killers of the dead? What do you hope to accomplish?

Justice.

You don’t want justice, you want revenge. And with revenge, you will find only more pain and more guilt.

What would you have me do, huh? I asked, raising my voice. Sit on my ass?

I don’t know, he shrugged, patting his hands through the air, telling me to keep it down. You seem incapable of helping yourself. Maybe you should try helping others.

What do you mean?

I mean use the talents God gave to you. You’re a brilliant detective, Thomas. My sister owes her life to you. That is a gift I will never forget. Use your skills to help the living. Become a proper investigator.

I sneered. I’m not a detective anymore. Even if I wanted to do what you’re suggesting, I don’t have any authority. Especially not out here.

Fine, Amir sank back in his seat, draping one arm along the back of the booth.

You’re right about the drinking though, I admitted. I’ll get dry.

You mean that?

"Yes, and because I’m spilling all of this crap to you, I leave you in charge of holding me accountable."

I look forward to it, Amir said. Now, go ahead and finish your beer. If I’m being held accountable, it will be the last one you have in quite some time.

Fair enough, I said, grasping the glass and taking a huge gulp.

I don’t think either of us believed a word.

Chapter Five

Cold caller.

---

Of course, Amir couldn’t see me all the time. Not when I sat in my dank little apartment with a fridge full of beer and two nearly full bottles of whiskey. I also knew that he was the responsible type who left for home at a decent hour … so if I decided to become better acquainted with Jack or Johnnie, there was no way he’d know.

Cheating on the little commitment I had made stirred up more guilt, but that was okay. By then, remorse and I had become so close, I doubt I could have functioned without it.

I didn’t feel too bad about the situation with Amir, though. I was going to find my family’s killers. It was just the drinking part I had told a little white lie about.

Acting out on that lie, I knocked back my fourth beer of the night—which was probably my seventh or eighth of the day—when someone knocked on my door. It was after ten at night, and having a visitor was strange. Hell, having a visitor at any time was strange. Curious, I stood … too quickly. I had forgotten about the couple of shots of whiskey I’d downed. It caught up to my legs, and I damn near fell in a heap.

I steadied myself, waiting for the knock to come again. One minute, I hollered, totally surprised by my swirling head. Not completely wasted yet, but quickly tipping over to that side.

I gathered my momentum and headed through my office for the door. I reached to turn on the dust-covered lamp that should have retired itself decades ago. My balance betrayed me as my feet swayed one way and my shoulders overcorrected. I stumbled hard, crashing into the side table that held the only source of light in this part of the room.

For a split second, I felt suspended in freefall, too late to steady the course. My thigh screamed out in pain as it hit the corner of the hardwood table, but my shoulder took the brunt of the force, slamming against the thin wall.

Shit! I cried out, too buzzed to care if the visitor on the other side of the door heard me. If they cared about manners they would have called first, or at least arrived at a respectable hour.

I looked down as the lamp landed on the padded carpet with a dull thud that mocked me. I squinted into the darkness to see if my shoulder had damaged the wall but couldn’t see a thing.

Instead, I propelled myself forward again, this time with my arms spread wide in front of me, in part to avoid slamming my face against an unexpected wall, but mostly to maintain some semblance of balance. Feeling foolish, like a child mimicking a tightrope walker, I took the three remaining paces. Arriving at the door still upright was a small miracle.

Perhaps fifteen seconds had passed since the knock. I opened the front door slowly, still uncertain who could be coming to visit at such an hour, but the hallway beyond was empty.

When I stepped out and looked over the rail to the street below, the light was bad and my vision blurry. The shadows blanketed everything, and the weak glow from the

Reviews for The Thomas Blume Series

[Erika Grobb · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

An absorbing read with a bent, broke and beat up hero who wins you over a little more with each book

A book that jumps into the middle of action in every chapter without the need to wade through acres of connecting filler.