Teeter-Totter Between Lust and Murder

By Steven M. Moore

As a mystery novel, it is a dark probing into the nexus the crime underworld sometimes enjoys with the rich and powerful. Chen is arrested for the murder of a senator in circumstances that seem to leave no doubt of her guilt, but Castilblanco sets out to prove her innocence. In the process, the two detectives uncover an insidious conspiracy. After many plot twists, their case concludes in a surprising climax. As a thriller novel, the events and action will keep the reader turning the pages.

Is Chen guilty? With the many POIs, who's to blame for the senator's death? And why is the conspiracy go beyond the gun trade and arms smuggling?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven M. Moore
• Release date: Dec 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781772420562

Steven M. Moore

If you’re reading this, thank you. Not many people find me...or recognize me as an author of many genre fiction novels. Maybe it’s because my name is too common—I thought once about using a pen name...and probably should have. Maybe it’s because I don’t get many reviews. (It's not hard to write one once you've read one of my books: just say what you like and dislike in a few lines, and why.) I know you have many good books and good authors to choose from, so I’m honored and humbled that you are considering or have read some of mine.You’re here on Smashwords because you love to read. Me too. Okay, maybe you’re here to give someone the gift of an entertaining book—that’s fine too. I love to tell stories, so either way, you’ll be purchasing some exciting fiction, each book unique and full of action and interesting characters, scenes, and themes. Some are national, others international, and some are mixed; some are in the mystery/suspense/thriller category, others sci-fi, and some are mixed-genre. There are new ones and there are evergreen ones, books that are as fresh and current as the day I wrote them. (You should always peruse an author's entire oeuvre. I find many interesting books to read that way.)I started telling stories at an early age, making my own comic books before I started school and writing my first novel the summer I turned thirteen—little of those early efforts remain (did I hear a collective sigh of relief?). I collected what-ifs and plots, character descriptions, possible settings, and snippets of dialogue for years while living in Colombia and different parts of the U.S. (I was born in California and eventually settled on the East Coast after that sojourn in South America). I also saw a bit of the world and experienced other cultures at scientific events and conferences and with travel in general, always mindful of what should be important to every fiction writer—the human condition. Fiction can’t come alive—not even sci-fi—without people (they might be ET people in the case of sci-fi, of course).I started publishing what I'd written in 2006—short stories, novellas, and novels—we’d become empty-nesters and I was still in my old day-job at the time. Now I’m a full-time writer. My wife and I moved from Boston to the NYC area a while back, so both cities can be found in some novels, along with many others in the U.S. and abroad.You can find more information about me at my website: https://stevenmmoore.com. I’m also on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorStevenMMoore; and Twitter @StevenMMoore4.I give away my short fiction; so does my collaborator A. B. Carolan who writes sci-fi mysteries for young adults. See my blog categories "Steve's Shorts," "ABC Shorts," and the list of free PDF downloads on my web page "Free Stuff & Contests" at my website (that list includes my free course "Writing Fiction" that will be of interest mainly to writers).I don't give away my novels. All my ebooks are reasonably priced and can be found here at Smashwords, including those I've published with Black Opal Books (The Last Humans) and Penmore Press (Rembrandt's Angel and Son of Thunder). I don't control either prices or sales on those books, so you can thank those traditional publishers for also providing quality entertainment for a reasonable price. That's why you won't find many sales of my books either. They're now reserved for my email newsletter subscribers. (If you want to subscribe, query me using [e-mail].)My mantra has always been the following: If I can entertain at least one reader with each story, that story is a success. But maybe I can do better than that? After all, you found me!Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

Book preview

Other books in the Detectives Chen and Castilblanco Series:

The Midas Bomb

Angels Need Not Apply

Other tales involving Detectives Chen and Castilblanco:

The Golden Years of Virginia Morgan

Pop Two Antacids and Have Some Java

The Clones and Mutants Series:

Full Medical

Evil Agenda

The Chaos Chronicles Trilogy:

Survivors of the Chaos

Sing a Samba Galactica

Come Dance a Cumbia…with Stars in Your Hand!

Other related books:

The Secret Lab (a sci-fi thriller for young adults)

Soldiers of God (fills the niche between Evil Agenda and Survivors of the Chaos)

Part 1: Sex Games

Variety and multiplicity are the two most powerful vehicles of lust.

—Marquis de Sade

Chapter One

Sunday 1:10 a.m.

One-two-three.  As I raised my middle finger, SWAT team leader Joey Tate broke down the door.  I let his young team members take the lead and only entered after they called Clear!  It was their gig.  I was an interested spectator.  They had body armor; I didn’t.  They can run in a crouch and still shoot; I’m too old.

Tate’s team is as diverse as the city, ranging from the tall and sinewy ex-MP, my age, to stocky and muscular Ben Cooper, ex-Navy Master-at-Arms, twenty-seven, who is capable of taking two or three of his companions in a fair fight.  All are firearms and explosives experts that can be called into action for critical situations, from drug-dealers’ shootouts to counter-terrorism battles.

I was still the senior cop on the scene, though, so I kneeled on one knee beside the body on the living room floor, put on rubber gloves, and lifted the vic’s arm.  Five bleeding bullet holes made a dotted line across the chest.  Sweep from an automatic? I thought.

My eyes traced bullet trajectories.  The wall also showed a sweep—more spaced because of angle, more holes than five.  I didn’t bother to count them, but knew the killer must own a high capacity clip.  Hard to miss your target that way.

All this took some thirty seconds.  Get the CSIs and the ME here, I told Tate.

His men milled around, their duties ended.  Problem with specialization?

Castilblanco, you know who this is, right? said Tate, standing over me like a malnourished Zeus on Mt. Olympus.

I nodded.  The vic was Senator Mark Daniels, the most eligible albeit incorrigible bachelor on Capitol Hill, famous for his money, love of the good life, and three divorces.  A man of the people, they say.  I’d heard he did good things.  At least, he rarely missed a vote.  Now he’ll miss a few.  He left the world the same way as he entered it—naked and bloody, maybe less wrinkled.

Twenty seconds more.  We all heard a door slam.

Cooper, did you clear the bedroom? asked Tate.

Sure did, Lt.  All clear.  No one on the fire escape either.

The apartment, a one-bedroom unit, is the kind greedy landlords like to put in buildings nowadays in their haste to make the maximum amount of money from the least amount of Manhattan square footage.  Pam and I are able to afford our little two-bedroom in Brooklyn because we make decent middle class salaries—hers better than mine—and we can still find apartments in Brooklyn worth the rent.

Tate, always the good leader, went to check.  Another minute passed.

Anything of note? I queried, not too proud to accept Tate’s helping hand in order to rise to my feet.

Tate, a man of few words, jerked a thumb toward the bedroom.  Sex games.

I’d known him awhile.  The two words plus naked body were equivalent to volumes from this SWAT team leader.  Some of his acerbic, terse demeanor was because of disinterest, though.  Like his team members, he figured his job was done.  If I wanted to be there, I had to earn my place.

I thought it fair.  I wouldn’t be detective in charge for long, but I’d be involved.  Payback for my curiosity and tagging along.  Well, he invited me!

I walked to the bedroom and frowned.  Daniels hadn’t been campaigning.  Better said, he was running a campaign of a different sort—bra and panties on floor; pair of black slacks; black, silk blouse at end of bed; and pair of red shoes with reasonable, low heels over by dresser.  Bed a mess.  Blankets and top sheet tossed and crumpled, bottom sheet stained.  Semen.  Easy observations, but I needed CSIs to confirm.  Sex games.

Another minute and a half had passed.

On the dresser sat a picture of a different man with bemused smile, as if he had taken it all in and thought it was a great joke at the expense of a VIP.  Was our man of the people a bisexual lad?  The senator was a bachelor and divorced, so I didn’t give a rat’s ass what he was, but the pic still raised the question of a jealous lover.

I snooped through some of drawers in the bureau.  Nothing.  I suspected the senator or someone else rented the apartment furnished.  Cozy place for having a good time.  But why the picture?

I went to the only bathroom to see if there was more spoor from the sex games.  A locked door stopped me.

A minute had passed.

Cooper, Tate, did you clear the john? I said.

Empty, said Cooper, following Tate into the bedroom to join me where I stood in front of the bathroom door.

I held an index finger to my lips.  Quiet reigned.  I heard the clock on the bureau go tick-tock.  A truck farted on the street below.  In the distance, a siren.

Tate pointed to the bed.  Damn it, Cooper, didn’t you check under the bed?  His whisper sounded more like cobra-talk.  The young Black team member’s look provided our answer.  Tate shook his head.  Whoever was there is now locked in the bathroom.

Apply your muscle, I whispered.

He moved us sideways.  Tate and Cooper had body armor, but bullets sprayed through that cheap bathroom door would send me to an early grave.

Tate stepped back, kicked, and broke the door down, his heavy boot splintering cheap plywood rather than breaking the lock.

I peered inside to a dark interior.  A tall Asian woman sat naked on the toilet.  She looked at ease with guns pointed her way, but hugged herself and rocked.

It’s about time some good guys showed up, said my partner, Dao-Ming Chen.

***

We’re two decades past 9/11 and not much has changed.  A new generation thinks about the event the same way my generation used to think about the Vietnam War.  History books often discuss both events as if they occurred in the Jurassic.  But terrorism and terrorists are more a part of our lives than ever.

I studied some boring C-span DVDs that made my mind wander to counterterrorism issues, that arcane art of handling random threats invented by international terrorists as well as home-grown ones, too many of them willing partners in the illegal arms trade.  I watched some recent hearings of the Senate Subcommittee on Crime and Terrorism.  This group of arrogant stuffed shirts comprised part of the Senate Judiciary Committee.

The debate was as interesting to watch as a race between snails on anesthesia, but I had focused on our vic, Senator Mark Daniels.  He was younger than the other senators and liked to pontificate more.  He had pipes and physique to do it too, sounding and looking like a Viking who had downed enough mead to lay waste to an entire village.  A subcommittee of old men who provided a rational argument for term and age limits should have been an easy conquest.

Those old men were stubborn, though.  The committee chairperson, Texas Senator Mitchell Turner, a white-haired fellow with the golden tan of a poster stud for a tanning salon, often backed Daniels when verbal infighting became grueling.  I thought it odd because they were from opposite parties.  Daniels was harping on how terrorism fed off the illegal arms trade, leading to my mind straying.  How does he know so much about it? I wondered.

I was trying to learn something about the personality of our vic but was learning more about Turner, who ran interference for Daniels with some dirty blocks that would produce multiple penalty flags and fines at any Giants game.  Easy for the young back to scamper downfield when the old offensive tackle is making illegal moves.  I googled the older senator on my tablet.

Although Mitch Turner also looked like a good argument for term and age limits even with the tan, he seemed to be sharp enough.  He is an NRA favorite, which is not unusual—no Congress person dares to buck the gun lobby.  His physique made him an affable spokesperson for those Second Amendment rights—maybe not as photogenic as Charlton Heston, but close.  He also has strong views about preferring a limited federal government and giving more power to the states.  He has some positive credits too—he champions immigration reform, for example.  Latinos in Texas love that, so every time his re-election comes up, he wins in a landslide—his opponent often sounds like a weak echo as far as Texas Latinos are concerned.  They don’t care if he is a stooge of the NRA—like the white cowboys, Latinos happily carry guns in Texas.

An astute politician, I thought, and then dismissed his importance to my case.  Texas was not a place but a state of mind, and much too big for me to understand.

***

As much as I enjoyed this slo-mo in HD color sample of our federal government at work, I was not disappointed when my boss, Lt. Kennedy, came into the interrogation room wearing a frown and scratching his Marine’s buzz cut that now showed plenty of gray.

She’s in booking, said Lt. Kennedy.  Not saying much.  Already has a lawyer.

Knows her rights, I said.  Give her time.  It’s clear she was fooling around with the great man.  Let’s attribute the locked bathroom door to trying to avoid the line of fire.  Or, maybe she only had to pee, in which case it was a good thing Cooper didn’t find her under the bed.  Anything from CSIs or ME?

We checked Chen’s story out, up ‘til the time she entered the love nest.  From there on, it doesn’t look good.  The senator was shot with an H&K pistol—the CSIs found it behind the sofa.  It’s not Chen’s service gun, but a registered weapon she keeps at home.  It was wiped clean of prints.

Clip size?

Illegal in New York and Connecticut; legal in New Jersey.  That’s where she purchased the gun.  Paterson, in fact.

It might have been stolen, I said, wondering why she had an H&K.  I couldn’t see Chen as gun collector, or even gun enthusiast, as compared to gun fanatic.  In most cases, she’d prefer to beat the crap out of a perp instead of shooting him.  My partner’s quiet, strong, and lethal, but not an active participant in urban or suburban gun culture.

Or, she might have taken it to her tryst with the Senator.  My look made Kennedy hesitate.  Just sayin’.

If she was going to make love to the man, why kill him?  Story doesn’t jibe.

And we don’t know hers.  Like I said, she’s not talking.  He put a hand on my shoulder.  You’re too close to this case, Rollie.  Let O’Neill and Rodriguez have it.  Not our precinct anyway.  Go home.  Relax.  Take Pam to dinner.  You two would serve Chen better by just being supportive.

I removed his hand.  That’s the brass talking, not you, Jack.  I’m not going to give you trouble.  Please, let me know, though, when you have more info from CSIs or ME.  Or, from Laurel and Hardy.  Do that for me, will you?

Kennedy nodded.  How were you involved in this mess?

I was saying hi to Tate—we go back a ways.  It was way past quitting time.  I was going to invite him and any of his boys who wanted to come with me for a beer.  They were called in response to a 9-1-1.  I was curious.  VIP held hostage.  Asked to tag along.  Tate invited me to do so.  Remember, I’m on the counterterrorism joint task force now.  The last was a lame excuse for both Tate and me, but I didn’t want to make trouble for the big fellow.

Kennedy smiled.  He also knew what I said was a sham.  They didn’t invite either Chen or me to meetings of the task force anymore.  Our names on the membership list were a token nod to previous jobs well done.  NYPD’s own counterterrorism specialists still considered us amateurs, and the Feds were always arrogant and aloof.

Curiosity kills old tom cats too, Kennedy said, and you’ve already used some of your nine lives.  Do we have that 9-1-1 recording?

I hope so.  I seem to recall someone saying the caller was a man.

Did he ID himself?

How would I know?  Tate didn’t say.  I don’t know if he knew.  He followed orders he received from on high.  Pass that data on to me when you find out, along with other stuff.

I will make sure Rodriguez and O’Neill keep you abreast.  Are you going to try to talk to Chen?

Later.  I want all available data first.  Who knows?  Maybe she killed the SOB.  Maybe he deserved it.

That sounds like prejudgment.  You’re being inconsistent.

The whether-she-killed-him part or the SOB part?  For the first, you know Chen well enough to realize she could kill him with her bare hands if he deserved it—she’s lethal.  For the second, I didn’t vote for him.  Did you?

As a matter of fact, yes.

I guess you’ll have to find another politico to vote for, then.

I left the office.

***

I went downstairs, thinking along the way I’d been too hard on my old friend Jack Kennedy.  He’s a good man.  Maybe he was right.  Maybe I was too close to the case.  By the time I hit staircase bottom, I’d decided to call my wife and see if she was free for at least a snack.  I needed a sympathetic person’s reaction—Pam Stuart has a good head on her shoulders.

I was just passing the night sergeant’s desk—he was busy with a computer that offered only a slight improvement to writing on Neanderthal cave walls—when Laurel and Hardy came prancing in.

Got a minute, Detective Castilblanco? inquired Rodriguez.

I sighed.  Upstairs.  We’ll find an interrogation room.

I hadn’t expected them until regular morning hours, but decided to grant them their inquisition.  They followed me upstairs.  We took I3.  It was old, smelly, and cold, so I figured that might speed things up.  I couldn’t remember whether their precinct rooms were any better, though.  The two might be immune to grime.

They grilled me.  I told them more than I told Kennedy, but not much more.

So you thought you could help? asked O’Neill.

Tate and his boys don’t need help.  You two would be in the way, for example.  Most of them are ex-MPs or equivalent that do a tough job well.  I was only curious and know how to keep out of trouble.

You weren’t protecting Chen? said O’Neill.  That would be trouble for you.

The implication being that I knew she was there.  I smiled.  I was as surprised to see my naked partner as much as Tate and Cooper were, although they probably enjoyed it more, especially Cooper.

What was she doing there? said Rodriguez.

You mean, besides fooling around with a senator?  Come on, man, we have private lives.  I might ask her what she saw in the SOB now I know about their relationship, but I wouldn’t have pried before that.  Chen’s had a rough go of it with men.  What she does is her own damn business.

We’ll have to ask her, said Rodriguez.  He wilted a bit under my scowl.

Or, Internal Affairs will ask her, said O’Neill with a nod.  His turn to wilt.

I put my hands flat on the table.  Are we done, fellows?

For now, said O’Neill.  Rodriguez nodded.

They left.  I went home.

Chapter Two

Sunday 10:30 a.m.

I visited Chen later that morning.  I came with two coffees, but popped Tums before I descended to Holding, just for precaution—I was burping a big Sunday breakfast my wife had insisted on feeding me.  I could have used additional sleep, more so after the meal, so I needed the coffee.  Mixed blessings.

Chen was stretched out on a cot on her side of the holding cell with her feet dangling over the end.  I perched on a metal stool.  Holding smelled like vomit, feces, and urine—the usual jail stench.  The coffee aroma couldn’t compete.  I didn’t envy her the night she had spent there.

I nodded to her cellmate, a heavy Black woman who muttered to herself.  She wrung her hands, hung her head, and sighed to punctuate the muttering.  I felt sorry for her.  For some reason, I thought of Lady Macbeth.  My wife still might succeed in making me a cultured man.

Chen nodded at the coffee, her way of thanking me, but wouldn’t answer my questions.  She said her lawyer had told her not to say anything, especially not to me.  She was more worried about what Pam, my wife, thought of her.

She doesn’t think you did it, I said.

She smiled her Asian equivalent of that Mona Lisa smile.  What do you think?

I agree with her.

You don’t think I could do it?

I’ve seen you kill a guy twice your size without a weapon.  Sure, you could do it.  But why?  Hell, he’s a senator.  Was, I should say.

Silence for a few beats.  I could see pain in her eyes, although she lay there without moving.

Dao-Ming Chen, if she stands, is almost my height.  She’s a classic Asian beauty of indeterminate nationality.  She towers over her hard-working parents.  Her good looks, grace, and slim body say retired model, but the last two characteristics are from years of training as a champion diver, not inherited genes.  She still does laps in a pool and is the martial arts guru of our precinct.

I have to take care of this, Rollie.  I don’t want you, Pam, Kennedy, or anyone else involved.

I’m involved because I’m your partner.  Kennedy’s involved because he’s your boss.  Pam’s involved because you’re her best friend.

All that’s why none of you can be involved.  Someone’s going to be hurt in all this.  I’d prefer it to be only me, not you people.  O’Neill and Rodriguez will do just fine running NYPD’s investigation.  My lawyer has also hired a PI.

I thought you didn’t like PIs?

Sometimes they’re a necessary evil, like lawyers.

Well, that’s all great news, but I can help too.  So can Pam.  In fact, we both have some vacation time due.

Don’t be ridiculous.  I have everything under control.

If that were true, you wouldn’t be here.  Can’t your lawyer post bail?

The judge set it too high.  He confided to my lawyer that he was pressured by the U.S. Justice Department.

This is not a federal case, I said, as alarms went off inside my head.

Not officially.  Look at the New York Times or Washington Post, though.  They already portray me as a crazy conservative with probable ties to some militia, a home-grown terrorist.

That doesn’t figure.  Well, maybe the crazy-conservative part.  I winked.  We share a camaraderie that can only develop between partners over many years. I’m the progressive and she’s the conservative.  We have mutual respect for each other’s opinions and never let our political differences influence our police work.  How’d they come up with that?

I have no idea.  I’ve been a cop all my working life, ever since I left the service.

"You used to work undercover in narcotics.  We were both on that damned task force in Vegas, but that only involved militia indirectly.  None of that matches up with the media’s spin.  With the problems we’re