The Collector

By Steven M. Moore

As in Teeter-Totter between Lust and Murder, this novel explores the possible links between some of the rich elites and criminal elements within the tri-state area surrounding NYC. The artworks involved are from a heist in Boston, and their use as collateral for the collector's terrible business is a surprise to the two detectives. Can they prove their case against him? Can they recover the paintings?

(Two minor characters, Scotland Yard Art and Antiques Inspector Esther Brookstone, and Interpol agent Bastiann van Coevorden, from Aristocrats and Assassins, help the two detectives on this case. Look for them both in Rembrandt's Angel, an offshoot of this series.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven M. Moore
• Release date: Jan 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781772420593

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

The Midas Bomb

Angels Need Not Apply

Pop Two Antacids and Have Some Java (anthology)

Teeter-Totter between Lust and Murder

Aristocrats and Assassins

The Golden Years of Virginia Morgan

Full Medical

Evil Agenda

No Amber Waves of Grain

Soldiers of God

The Secret Lab (young adult novel)

Survivors of the Chaos

Sing a Samba Galactica

Come Dance a Cumbia…with Stars in Your Hand!

Pasodobles in a Quantum Stringscape (anthology)

Muddlin’ Through

Reviewers’ Comments on the Chen and Castilblanco Books

The Midas Bomb

[This book] is a very well-written, action-packed thriller. The author quickly introduces some very interesting characters. It took a few chapters for me to sort them all out. The plot is intriguing and thought provoking with many twists and turns along the way. I found myself wondering if something like this scenario could really happen? I do have one little criticism. The author chose to change scenes in the middle of pages without notification. Sometimes it took a few paragraphs before I realized the scene had changed, particularly early in the story. However, once I figured out the author’s style, I really got into the story and thoroughly enjoyed it from start to finish.

—Paul Johnson, for Readers’ Favorite

Angels Need Not Apply

I enjoyed this thriller featuring Detectives Chen and Castilblanco, who are put on a murder investigation that ends up tied into a larger scale terrorism investigation. It had a lot going on but brought the various storylines into a satisfying conclusion. Interesting characters abound in this tale, and that makes it even more fun to read. This was a sequel of sorts to The Midas Bomb, but stands very easily on its own. I recommend it to anyone who enjoys intrigue and action in thrillers.

—S. D. Beallis, in his reader review

Teeter-Totter between Lust and Murder

Chen and Castilblanco together again—this time in a police crime thriller—loved it! This is solid work—two lead characters who are as opposite as can be but who form a perfect crime fighting combo. What I especially like about this book is that everything was laid out in front of the reader—there were any number of suspects—and I let myself be led down a trail only to be shocked at who actually did it! Great writing—wonderful character development—I think the best yet from this author!

—Annie Laurie, in her reader review

Aristocrats and Assassins

This is perhaps the best of the Chen-and-Castilblanco books, and finds Castilblanco (who tells his story in first person) taking a vacation to Europe with his TV news reporter wife, while Chen goes off to China to follow a dirty money trail. Castilblanco finds himself in the middle of a kidnapping, and soon it is clear that someone is kidnapping royals in Europe. As it turns out, Castilblanco has had experience with this particular terrorist/kidnapper before. And, also as it turns out, the money trail that Chen is following leads to the same person.

I hit a spot in this book where I couldn't put it down. I wanted to know what the terrorists wanted; I wanted to know how the good guys were going to save the day. Well written and well plotted, I enjoyed it completely. Looking forward to the next adventures of Chen and Castilblanco.

--S. D. Beallis, in his reader review

It’s rare to find a book that actually does a good job of overcoming its sequel status. Such a book is wonderful because it allows new readers to jump into the story without worrying that they will miss anything: and this book is a beautiful example of how to do this right. As a result, we wouldn’t hesitate to recommend this book, even to people who have never read the first three prequels (in other words, people like us).

—GoodBadBizarre dot com, in their reader review

Pop Two Antacids and Have Some Java

If you're familiar with Detectives Chen and Castilblanco from this author's other books…, then this collection of short stories provides some insight into their relationship as friends and partners. It's a nice way to get to know the characters better. If you haven't read [the other] books, this collection still stands on its own….

Either way, this book is great for anyone who enjoys a good thriller/detective story but doesn't have a lot of time to spend solving the case. The individual stories (some featuring both detectives, and some occurring before they partnered up) are still very gripping and exciting without confining you to one case for an extended period.

—Serenity Carson, in her reader review

The Golden Years of Virginia Morgan

Let me begin this review by saying that I really enjoy dystopian fiction. 1984, Fahrenheit 451, and the like are all favorites of mine. Without giving too much away, this book contains several elements of near-future dystopian fiction with a plotline that involves a conspiracy that is obviously science fiction, but is still just plausible enough to make you think.

Chen and Castilblanco, the protagonists of previous stories set in the same fictional universe, play relatively minor roles here. Instead, the focus is on middle-aged Homeland Security agent Ashley Scott who rather inadvertently stumbles into a government facility playing host to some highly suspicious activity. Several chapters give you a look into the shadowy characters of Raven and Hawk, who are somehow related to the mysterious operation Scott uncovers and eventually becomes a victim of.

This book is a page-turner that keeps you guessing until the end. Late in the story, a bombshell is dropped that will make you gasp if you've read the Chen and Castilblanco books. Even if you haven't, there's plenty of suspense and thrills to go around. Ashley Scott, despite her age, is a strong leading lady who you'll almost certainly develop an admiration for by the end of the book.

—Serenity Carson, in her reader review

On Modern Art

There is this thing called modern art,

Complicated though it be,

It seems to me a very good start

In mediocrity.

Critics exclaim and I’ll explain

The reason for my disapproval—

It seems to me what I need to see

Is its complete removal.

Squiggles and lines and concubines

Of triangles and squares so rare,

That I find I go out o’ my mind

Wondering why and if they’re there.

Snakes and trees and objects to please

Meet the observer’s eye.

I scratch my head and wonder instead,

Give me the reason why!

Abstract design is terribly fine

For linoleum floors and such,

But honestly, it is to me,

A true incompetent’s crutch.

Nude displays and gay arrays

Of bathers tan or brown,

Though you only know what’s in the show

By the titles posted around.

I like art and when they start

To paint something I find worthwhile,

Then that’s when they’ll finally win

My most approving smile.

—Rolando Castilblanco (scribbled on a coffee house napkin, near New York City’s MoMA)

Prolog

The woman awoke with a start, her head throbbing. Chloroform—she knew the odor well, even though she hadn’t smelled it in years. She tried to move, but someone had bound her hands and feet behind her in a way that forced her into an uncomfortable fetal position.

She wasn’t claustrophobic, but she panicked all the same—she was helpless and in a dark, tight space filled with stale air. But she couldn’t scream. The piece of duct tape over her mouth didn’t help because narrowing nasal passages accompanied her tears of frustration. She was drowning but not under water.

She was also cold. She realized she was nearly naked and dressed only in her frilly baby dolls, but she wasn’t at home in her comfy bed. No, she was lying on a surface that felt like an old, thin carpet, one that might cover a basement floor.

Is this all a bad dream? The negligée had been an expensive gift, especially if one calculated price per square inch of material. Now it’s likely ruined. I’d never wear it after this!

There were other strong odors besides the chloroform. Oil and gasoline. Something else. Loud noises. City traffic. But she sensed no motion.

I must be in a car trunk. She squirmed but shrunk back. Another body. She then recognized the other odors—the pungent smell of urine and feces. Hers?

My God! I’ve soiled myself. She almost laughed then. What a thing to worry about in my predicament. Yet it was natural for her to do so. Her upbringing in the Hamptons was sheltered and, oh, so proper. Mommy would be aghast. Her daughter would never climb into a trunk as a lark, yet here she was. Trapped and helpless.

***

The trunk of the car opened. The small light nearly blinded her, but she caught a glimpse of another woman next to her, bound in the same manner.

I’ve changed my mind. You can’t kill them both. I won’t have it!

A familiar voice…but somehow different?

It doesn’t matter what you think. We serve the same master, so shut up.

A Slavic voice, gruff and threatening.

This has gone too far. I’m out of here.

OK, OK. Keep it together, bro. Let me make a phone call.

The conscious woman could make out only one side of the phone conversation, which made no sense at all, but the caller soon confronted the other man.

Change of marching orders. We’ll just kill the one bitch for now, but we’ll also make sure the other doesn’t remember anything. That’s the way it’s going to be. Live with it.

An unvoiced implication that he wouldn’t live if he didn’t agree to the compromise?

To the conscious woman’s horror, one captor reached into the trunk and started stabbing the other woman. Blood spattered all over the first. The victim should have screamed, but she was probably gagged or unconscious too.

The conscious woman was sure the brutish thrusts had eliminated any possibility of screams. What will happen now? What don’t they want me to remember?

As an answer to her mental question, she saw the knife had changed to a needle, although the hand was still bloody. She felt a pinprick on her bare arm and watched as the tiny trunk light faded from her view.

Chapter One

CSIs bagged the body and zipped it shut. Signed, sealed, and nearly delivered. Next stop, the morgue. I’d query Big Tiny, our ME, for his opinion later. He would sprinkle some free necro-humor into the conversation, so later was better—I’d breakfasted on an egg-and-sausage sandwich from a nearby deli and was working on my coffee between Tums. My stomach was a roiling offshore nor’easter. Name’s Castilblanco, and I suffer from acid reflux…and from a city that’s crazy at times.

They always find them in the morning, said Chen.

Just before dawn, I said. That’s when murders occur. Smiled as she frowned at my crime-scene theorizing. When the rest of the city starts to wake up, we find the bodies. What do we have on our vic? Knew she had likely queried her PDA and probably had loads of information on him.

I still call them PDAs. They’re more than your garden-variety smart phone because they come with a little stylus so cops can take notes. Hated them more than the tiny hybrid cars from the carpool we have to drive if we need transportation, a bureaucrat’s nod toward a green economy. OK by me in principle—I avoided driving in the city, preferring the even greener public transportation system.

The victim is Brendan Rafferty, owner of an art gallery on Mercer Street in the SoHo district.

Galleries and artist lofts, but not our precinct. Can we pass on it? Already knew the answer—wouldn’t be there if we could.

Not likely, unless the Commish’s office steps in. Why would you want to pass?

Because I hate modern art. Jackson Pollack’s work reminds me of my eye doctor’s hounding me about needing glasses. Cubism gives me indigestion and heartburn. I’m running low on Tums today. And we see enough dismembered bodies.

Chen nodded. One has to develop a taste.

With Chen, it’s always hard to tell if she’s joking because she rarely smiles. Are you referring to art or Jeffery Dahmer? Modern art isn’t about taste—it’s about being a visual masochist. Taste is about food, like artichokes. And I don’t like those either. Took a sip of coffee. Sounds as if you’re an expert. Can you handle this one on your own?

I painted some as a teenager. Watercolors, mostly. Stopped because it took time from my diving. Better for my health too.

Did you finger paint as a child? She nodded. You’re qualified, then. So, do you want to fly solo on this one?

You didn’t let me finish. I’d think you’d find the case interesting. The ex-wife thinks she killed him.

Thinks? Was she taking one of those sleeping pills and sleepwalking or something as a consequence?

Now there was only a slight hint of a smile from my partner. She was my Asian Mona Lisa.

As a matter of fact, yes. She’s been having trouble with her pills. She awoke with blood all over her baby dolls and called 9-1-1. CSIs think it’s her ex-husband’s blood—at least, it’s not hers. Already ran types—they differ.

In summary, we knew there was a corpse before we even found it. Open and shut case, if you ask me. Spouses are always first suspects. If it’s not the butler, it’s the spouse. Why are we wasting our time?

Looked around the alley. Why had the vic come here? Everyone knows there are places you shouldn’t visit in Manhattan during the wee hours of the morning. The Bronx had its attractions—my wife likes to go to that new covered mall—but murder wasn’t an attraction, last I heard, at least not for victims.

It’s a little too open and shut, said Chen, and that’s why you should be interested. How many homicides do we solve before we even find a body?

Made a zero with my thumb and index finger. All right. Agreed. I’m interested. Watched the morgue truck pull away. Anything I need to know about the crime scene?

Small knife wounds, one in the gut, but a pro job on the right carotid. Not much blood, though.

So he was killed somewhere else and drained out. That implicates the ex-wife even more. She might be the one who dumped the body, but maybe you’re right—a little too easy. Looked at my watch. Let’s give Big Tiny time to do his job while we scope out the gallery and talk to Mrs. Rafferty, our only logical POI for now.

Her name’s Wanda Finch. She went back to her maiden name. We can talk to her first—her place is on the way to the gallery.

We opted for subway. At 7:10 a.m., traffic was at a standstill, both inside Manhattan and outside from people trying to get inside. Major repairs on the Pulaski Skyway had been going on for years, for example.

When the hell are they going to ban cars from the city?

***

We found tiny Wanda Finch still sobbing as CSIs swarmed over her place too. Beyond blood smears all around from her baby dolls, I expected they wouldn’t find much. Maybe a murder weapon—from the amount of blood on her clothes, maybe a sizeable kitchen knife? No weapon at the body dump, according to Chen.

I-I just woke up and felt s-sticky g-goo on my hands, she told us. CSIs had taken the nightclothes. She was dressed in a terry-cloth bathrobe.

The vic had been short, maybe five-six, but his ex was even shorter. Guessed about five-two. She was a plain woman, a bit corpulent—more appearance than fact, because of her stature—with short and curly dark hair. Unless it was all an act, she seemed to be a sensitive woman and likely attractive when she wasn’t crying. Had her ex been an SOB?

Hated that and always have to watch that I don’t leap to conclusions. I accept different cultures—you have to in order to live in the Big Apple—but certain ones turn me off when it comes to their treatment of women. Of course, Latinos defined the term machismo, so I find some abuse issues even among my own relatives. Only see spousal and children abuse now when they become homicides, but each case remains with me, especially if I can’t solve the crime, something that happens all too often—the DA’s office always prefers open-and-shut cases.

I sat across from Finch in a wing chair with a floral pattern reminiscent of Monet’s lily paintings. Now, there was an artist! Chen sat next to Finch, PDA stylus in hand. I always let her take notes. Can’t manage that damn stylus—fingers are too meaty.

We have to ask this, I said. Were you still in post-divorce combat mode with your ex-husband?

Heavens no, said Finch. We broke up five years ago. It was my fault. I’ve felt sorry for him ever since. Are you married, detective?

To a loving, lovely, and intelligent woman, I said, who’s the best damn social secretary a man can have.

How would you feel if your wife decided she wanted to leave you for another woman, say, your partner, here?

Looked at Chen and smiled. Both my wife and partner are in monogamous relationships, prefer them, and neither swings that way, as far as I know. I’d be surprised, to say the least.

Brendan was more than surprised. He was crushed. He was despondent for nearly two years, but finally rose above his dark funk. He’s a very sensitive man. I had dinner with him just last week. After the shock and recovery, we remained friends.

Why do you think the blood belongs to him? said Chen.

Because, when I woke up, I remembered the dream. I was with him.

Did you kill him in your dream? I said, thinking it might not have been a dream.

No, but the dream seemed so real. I awoke in a panic and staggered into the living room where I saw my purse and its contents spread all over the floor. I couldn’t find my car keys or cell phone. I’m afraid I drove somewhere and then left the car on the street.

Made a mental note of that: find her car.

What was the dream about? said Chen.

Watched the blush start at the top edge of the robe’s brocade above her breasts and wash over her face. Do I have to tell you that?

We’d like to be the ones to decide if it’s pertinent, said Chen. All of this is confidential. No one’s accused you of anything yet, Wanda.

I squirmed at that. She was definitely a POI. We should have started with Miranda rights. I’d assumed the uniforms had done that. Big error on our part?

Just to be thorough, Ms. Finch, I said, we need to read you your rights. That way, if you don’t want to tell us the dream, you don’t have to. I thought that was a sly run-around, but necessary to protect the case while providing her more verbal tonic to settle her down. Nodded to Chen, who did the deed, verbatim match to the most recent Supreme Court decision. Now, do you want to tell us about the dream?

It’s probably a storm in a teacup, said Finch, still blushing. Everyone has sex dreams. There’s nothing about my dream you can’t see in living color and surround sound in an R-rated movie. Carol, Brendan, and I were making love. A ménage-a-trois, if you will.

I nodded. Wasn’t embarrassed. Heard much worse—or better, from some people’s point-of-view. In California, they might think ménage-a-trois is SOP. No comment, but a question. Who’s Carol? Your significant other? Finch nodded. Where is she?

Kansas City. She travels a lot.

Would she do something like that?

I hope not.

Did she have feelings for Brendan? said Chen.

Again, I hope not. She doesn’t despise him either and respects my continuing friendship with him. She knows she broke us up and maybe feels a bit guilty. We’ve never talked about it, though. I guess we should.

We’ll have to talk to her when she returns,