The Valley of Dying Stars: A Mark Christian Detective Novel

By J.D. Miller

In The Valley of Dying Stars, we meet a new Private Investigator, Mark Christian. He is an ex-Marine, war hero, veteran of Desert Storm and Somalia, and self-confessed adrenaline junkie. A lover of jazz, antique motorcycles, and a gorgeous Irish girl named Aislinn, whose high level job with the government gives Mark entree into the world of the political and media elite.

Lillian Jones' son has been murdered, and the local police can't solve the case. Desperate, she turns to Mark Christian for help. She's heard of his reputation. He's not like most Private Investigators, who spend their time slinking around outside motels taking pictures of people cheating. He gets hired for the rough stuff: executive protection and murder investigations. This case takes him from his home in the beautiful mountains of the Shenandoah to the underbelly of the vicious drug trade in inner city Washington D.C., the "murder capitol of the world." It is a nightmarish, surreal world of junkies, dealers, and hookers; a gritty, morally complex journey that pits this tough new P.I. against a drug kingpin and domestic terrorist.

"The hero in this story is finely drawn, a carefully crafted jewel of contradictions. He has the toughness, courage and principals of Robert B. Parker's Spenser, but is ultimately more complex and conflicted. The story is moving and unforgettable with something for everyone: romance, searing, heart-stopping action, and an engaging mystery that has a shocking, surprise ending. But, what is also fantastic, is its basis in reality. Anyone who has worked in the inner city knows that the horrible places he writes about actually exist." Gregory Bearstop, MTS, LCADC, Author of Happiness That is Guaranteed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 10, 2003
• ISBN: 9781410708625

J.D. Miller

J.D. Miller, MA, CPP-G, MAC is a certified professional counselor and award-winning writer. He has been published in several professional publications and made numerous TV appearances. This novel draws primarily on his experiences working as a substance abuse counselor, treating heroin and crack addicts in the most violent, impoverished neighborhoods in Washington, D.C. He currently lives in Warrenton, Virginia with his wife, son, and three dogs.

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The Valley of Dying Stars

A Mark Christian Detective Novel

J.D. Miller

by

J.D. Miller

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive, Suite 200       

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2009 J.D. Miller. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 8/26/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4107-0863-2 (sc)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many thanks to David Hale, private investigator extraordinaire, for the technical advice, my friend Bruce, co-creator of Subpop Records, for the supportive review and advice on marketing and promotion; Kerrey for the invaluable lead that led to Charlottesville: Doc J (my future Nobel Prize winner), My Lady Di, The Admiral, Nonna, Zia, Hollywood Joe, Uncle Ferdi, and Henry T, former owner of the Oakland Raiders, for the kind invite to your vineyard so I could write in peace.

Thanks also to the friends, fellow writers, and publishing professionals who have believed in my writing and strongly encouraged me along the way, especially Bill T, Kelly, Bella, Chrissy, and Heidi.

Thanks to RM Scott for the cultivation, education and cross-pollination.

A special thanks to the fans who have taken the time to write letters and emails - you keep the fire burning.

And, of course, endless thanks to Greg for paving the way. Without you none of this would have happened.

Lovingly dedicated to my son, Jonathan.

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The hand holding the .38 shifted slightly, pressing the cold steel of the barrel more firmly into my left temple.

It’s amazing the clarity of perception you get at moments like this. As the gun moved I could feel the curved striations of the inner barrel slightly scratching against my temple and the smooth expanse of its outer surface, warming rapidly as it took the heat from my flesh, as if it was already drawing the life from me. Outside, through the windows of my house, every vein of oak and hemlock leaf, each flower of the scattered clouds of laurel and daisy that border the house are etched in ecstatic, colorful detail. And beyond, a crescent moon hovers over an oceanic vista of mountains and hills, rolling away into forever - a good last sight.

I can hear a hawk’s cry, the adagio of wind moving in waves through the treetops, and the soft, rhythmic panting of Rachel, the world’s worst watchdog. If I ever get through this, I’ll have to teach her a class in doggy basics. Rule One: When someone is holding a gun to your master’s head - attack! Don’t lie under the kitchen table, watching curiously.

So this is it, I thought.

Memories arise effortlessly, precious diamonds to be held and savored. I’ve seen so many magnificent things: hundreds of tanks on fire on the plains of Nasiriyah, the endless vault of stars beneath the Southern Cross, and the perfect, emerald, terraced rice fields of Kumamoto, shining in Eden’s dawn light. Echoes of a distant breath of spring in the flowers sprouting on a snowcapped mountainside. The northern lights waving like a heavenly, translucent, celestial ocean above the Alaskan plains. So many moments of transcendent wonder, magnificent vistas, beautiful friendships, and mad loves. A full, tangled life, backlit in the white light of the soul. A beautiful dream, soon to be interrupted.

The memories recede, a lightning flash of reminiscence that encompasses an eternity of experience, and I am again exquisitely mindful of the gun barrel pressed into my left temple. The hand holding it is shaking slightly, which is curious, so I shift my eyes to look up at the face. His skin is blotchy with strain, lips trembling, and a nervous tick in the left eyelid beats like an irregular heart beat. None of the coldness of a practiced killer. Once, in the first Gulf War, I’d seen a veteran of three wars interrupt a joke to shoot an enemy, and then without a pause or missed breath, turn back to me and finish the punch line. Later, he’d used the body as a pillow on which to take a nap. Clearly, the guy I was dealing with now was different. In the past, he’d probably given the orders to kill people, but was not used to the gruesome, horrific, soul-searing reality of carrying them out. But, inexperienced or not, he still had me; it would only take a millisecond to pull the trigger.

I’m surprised I’m not feeling more panicked about this. I’m concerned, but not on the level that one would expect. Maybe it has something to do with the large dose of Percocet, that opiate angel, that I took in the car on the way here. And where is here? What journey led me to this point? That will take a lot of explaining……

Three Months Prior

May 1997

Free-falling from 30,000 feet, soaring above all earthly concern on wings of joy - a shining moment of ecstatic freedom. Flying past fear into an ever-present now, approaching inner purity, beautifully near that state where you can see the world with the eyes of God. A cloud approaches, and I explode through it in an instant, a bullet through gossamer, trailing vapor for an instant afterwards from hands and heels.

I look up from the ground and am pleased, as always, to barely make out the curvature of the earth, a dark blue arc on the horizon. The only sound besides the roar of the wind is the deep, regular, echoing sigh of my breath in the oxygen mask. Jumping from this extreme altitude, three times higher than the normal parachutist jumps, it is an absolute necessity. Without it, I would suffer instant hypoxia, black out within thirty seconds, and suffer brain damage.

This was a HALO (High Altitude, Low Opening) jump, the most extreme, dangerous form of parachuting. I’d done it many times in the Special Forces, but this was my first time as a civilian. It had cost me $3000, all the money I’d made on a previous case. But God was it worth it! Three eternal minutes of free fall. I savored every moment of this adrenaline induced Satori.

A fellow parachutist floated downwards into my line of vision, waving happily, maniacally, endlessly excited, totally lost in the thrill and rush of adrenaline. I gave him a thumbs up as a courtesy, and he returned it, then he angled his body forward, tucked his arms back, and shot downwards like a rocket. That superman move was fun, and I’d done it many times, but today I felt like prolonging the fall, so I stayed parallel to the earth, so that my body could act as a brake against the column of air I was riding on.

I was so far up that the Blue Ridge Mountains, magnificent green mammoths that soared so incredibly high above my home, looked like a double row of tiny bumps stretching across the horizon. Farms, roads, and houses were invisible. I did a couple of dozen vertical spins, just for fun, and began to laugh in child-like joy. I was reminded of those wonderful lines from Jack London:

The proper function of a man is to live, not just exist. I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.

Damn right, Jack!

As I came closer to the ground, I began to closely watch the altimeter strapped to my wrist. Three thousand feet, two thousand, one thousand, PULL! I was jerked upwards as the parachute bloomed above like a beautiful flower. Another minute and I was on the ground, sitting happily beside my equipment, smoking a celebratory cigar. A PG#5 – the only cigar worth smoking, to my mind.

The newer jumpers were standing in a circle as they doffed their gear, still whooping and laughing, talking around and over each other excitedly as they recounted their adventure. The instructors, all ex-military like me, gave them plenty of time to enjoy it, then broke in and gave each jumper a kind, firm, constructive critique of his performance. They didn’t bother with me because they knew that I had more HALO jumps than the all of them combined.

Later, one of the instructors wandered over, nodded towards my cigar and said good naturedly, Did you bring one of those for anyone else, you selfish bastard?

I laughed and said, I brought one for everyone.

All right! He grinned and waved everyone over and soon we were sitting in a circle in the soft grass, happily sending clouds of smoke to heaven. The new jumpers were deeply complimented and contented at their inclusion, like newly ordained Lakota warriors invited to their first tribal council, or young Vikings after their first raid, feasting for the first time with the veteran fighters. They had passed the right of initiation, proven their courage, and were now a part of our tribe.

There was a lot of talk about the jump, bad jokes and excessive laughter. At one point a new jumper asked, How many combat HALO jumps have you guys made?

There were four instructors. Three said none, and one said two.

Where?

Iraq and Afghanistan.

What was it like? Were you scared?

Of course I was. Scared shitless. But I ain’t the guy you should be talking to. Then he jerked his thumb in my direction and said, Ask him.

They all looked at me. I sighed. I didn’t like talking about this stuff, but felt I should be polite and indulge them.

I’ve made five. One in Panama, one in Afghanistan, and the rest I can’t talk about.

What do you mean? Why not? one of the newbies asked, leaning forward, intensely interested now.

Black ops stuff, the instructor to my left volunteered. He was an ex-Green Beret - the one with the two combat jumps. Let’s just say that sometimes we jump into countries that we aren’t supposed to be in, and the American public never knows.

Holy shit, our government does that? somebody asked.

All the time, the instructor continued. No way around it, especially on some of the anti-terrorism ops. For instance, some of our special operators will jump from 40,000 feet, too high for the people on the ground to even hear the airplane engine, open the chute, and steer it by a GPS devise on a wrist band. It’s so accurate that you could land on a rooftop. Then you rappel down the side of the building, crash through the windows, and take out the bad guys.

Damn!!

Have any of you guys ever been shot? another one asked.

I was hit once, said the ex-Green Beret.

I got real lucky. The round missed my liver by an inch.

How about you? they asked me.

Never. Actually I had been shot three times, and hit with grenade shrapnel twice, but didn’t want to talk about it. I knew the endless questions and war stories that they would want afterwards, and coming down off my adrenaline high, I was tired and not in the mood.

We finished the cigars, helped stow the gear, made promises to keep in touch that we knew we probably wouldn’t keep, then were off to our various forms of transportation home. Most guys got into SUVs, trucks, and luxury sedans.

But I’d decided long ago that a safe life was not worth living. Hence my mode of transportation, a twin valve, 790cc, jet black Triumph Speedmaster – my own personal road rocket. I revved her up and savored the sound of her engine. Vented through a pair of long deep chrome silencers, it was aria both powerful and sensuous. It could feel it vibrate pleasantly in my crotch and all the way up to my chest.

I joyfully pulled back on the throttle and was flying again, this time under the big sky instead of through it. I was going east down Route 211, traveling deep in the country, in the western-most part of Virginia. It was the first real day of spring, with the sky a rich, cloudless, baby blue and a clean warm wind that rustled the leaves. The perfect day for a long ride. Images flashed past: a farm house set back beneath the shade of a massive oak tree, a field of purple flowers, framed in emerald grass. Horses feeding on the crest of a hill. A collapsing, boarded up gas station that looked like it had been abandoned since the 1940’s. Oceans of trees crowned in sunlight.

But most of the time the images were peripheral, because I was in that pleasant but sharp state of alertness that most good riders stay in, my eyes moving back and forth in dreamy, REM like patterns, scanning for the things that will bring you down: gravel, sand, decreasing radius turns. Potholes, a large branch that has fallen on the road, or some drunk or careless idiot in a car who doesn’t see you. All the things that a person in a car would barely notice, but can kill you on a bike. There was a reason why most emergency room workers had a nickname for motorcycles. They called them donorcycles.

Two mountain ranges and an endless number of hills later, I pulled into Old Town Warrenton. It consisted of your classic 1950’s all-American Main Street, with a stately courthouse that dated back to the Civil War, a family-owned pharmacy, and carved wood signs above the shop doors. There were also antique shops, a speciality deli that sold rare wines, an alternative book store, and a wonderful, cozy little coffee house.

I parked my bike between two buildings dating back to the early part of the century. My office was in the second building, third floor rear, with a nice view of the surrounding hills. A pile of junk mail lay on the floor – my only greeting. I threw it all in the trash and then lit up a cigarette and poured myself a finger of The Macallan. I was just lighting my second cig and pondering another shot of whiskey when she walked in. Old, slightly stooped, skin the color of worn leather. She sat down in the chair across from my desk and hacked softly at the cloud of smoke that hung in the room.

Her face screwed up slightly in distaste as she said, You don’t look like no private eye to me.

What does a private eye look like?

Well, I expected someone sleazier, I suppose…..

I’m sleazier than I look.

Hmph, she said as she scanned me steadily, trying to figure out if I knew what I was doing. Well, you definitely got the build for it.

Thanks. What can I do for you ma’am? I asked, hoping to move things along.

My name’s Lillian Jones. I need some help, but I ain’t got much extra money right now. When I told the sheriff that, they sent me to you.

I tried not to blush at this latest round of flattery. That’d be Tom Harris, I said, almost to myself.

Yes, she said, looking mildly surprised. Deputy Harris. He said you might be willing to take on someone that can’t pay much. And sho’ nuff I can’t pay much of nothin’, she said, shaking her head for emphasis. How you know him?

We met on a previous case, kept in touch afterwards, and became friends. He’s the only person in the Sheriff’s Office who would know that I’m fiscally challenged, I said wryly. She was looking at me blankly so I elaborated. Who would know that I’m currently low on cash, and therefore, willing to take on clients who can’t pay much.

Oh. He also told me that you wasn’t one of them private eyes who go slinkin’ around outside of motels, tryin’ to catch someone cheatin’. He said that people hire you for the rough stuff.

That’s true. I also do some executive protection on occasion.

We sat quietly for a moment. I took a drag on my cigarette and blew the smoke towards the slice of sky in the open window.

You read all these books? she asked, gesturing vaguely towards the bookshelves that lined the walls.

Yes.

You ain’t no intellectual, is you?

No. I just like to read.

Good. Never did meet an intellectual that could get a damn thing done.

I smiled and said, Me neither. Not anyone that was just an intellectual, anyways.

So what else you do besides read?

I didn’t like answering these questions from a stranger, but felt like I ought to be patient with them. This was basically my profession’s equivalent of a job interview.

Well, before I got into this, I spent some time in the Marines.

Really, she said, pleased now. One of my sons’ is an officer in the army. He fought over there in Iraq. Now he teaches at West Point.

I did some time in Iraq and Mogadishu, I added while taking another drag on my cigarette.

You grow up around here?

No. I was born in Northwestern Pennsylvania, near Erie. My parents were killed in a car crash. I lived a while with an uncle and his family, but that didn’t work out too well. I eventually went to live in a catholic seminary up there.

Oh? How come it didn’t work out at your uncle’s?

He had an alcohol problem, I said, surprised at the effort of will it took to keep the hostility out of my voice.

She raised her eyebrows, having caught my tone of forced casualness. She wisely decided to let it go. So if you was in the seminary, she said, how come you didn’t become a priest?

For a while I thought I would. But as I got older, I found that there were some things about the church that I couldn’t agree with, so I moved on. I’m grateful to them though; the seminary provided me with a family I wouldn’t have had otherwise.

There was another silence during which she gave me one last searching look and then seemed to come to a decision.

My son Eric was killed six months ago. Shot dead two blocks from his home in Northeast Washington, DC. As usual, the police ain’t found shit. I want you to find whoever did this and put ‘em in jail, she said.

Forgive me for asking, but was he in the life?

No! He was a nice boy! Didn’t ever get into trouble. Worked at the Government Printing Office and went to church regular and all that. Never knew him to bother no one.

So why would someone want to kill him? I asked.

The police told us they think it was a case of mistaken identity. That whoever done this was actually gunnin’ for some drug dealer and mistook Eric for that person in the dark.

If that’s true, it’ll make it tough to find out who did it. Most murders are committed by someone who knows the victim. If there is no connection, like in a contract killing, it becomes especially hard to solve.

Are you saying you can’t do it? she asked, her tone abrupt.

Ms. Jones, I’m no salesman. I’m too inclined to tell the hard truth, and let the chips fall where they may. So here it is: it will be difficult, and I can’t guarantee I can find out who did it, and I will still expect to be paid for the time I spend even if I can’t.

So why should I hire you? What can you do that the cops haven’t already done?

"I can work on the case full time. Many homicide detectives are overwhelmed with an enormous number of cases, especially in a city like DC. So their attention is divided, they make mistakes, miss connections, and do a less than thorough job. A lot of them are burned out, too, and they tend to ignore cases that are not easily solved. Most murder cases are solved within the first forty-eight hours, and in more difficult cases it can be hard to find the motivation to keep working. Also, not being a part of the police bureaucracy, I can get things done quicker. I don’t have to fill out 20 forms every time I want do