Where There's Smoke (Aidan Undercover Mystery)

By Erin O'Quinn

Aidan Williamson, just another Police Scotland constable in a tiny Highlands hamlet, is plucked from his routine life into a case of murder most foul. Still wincing from the wounds of a recent separation, Aidan keeps his emotional life tucked in his trousers, out of sight. Until he encounters Kenneth Logan—a man in self-isolation at Devil’s Point. There’s a secret buried in those soul-deep eyes.

How long before the rookie detective gives in to his almost sensual attraction to all that’s profoundly mystifying? And who will survive the killing field in a place Scots call The Demon’s Penis?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erin O'Quinn
• Release date: Jun 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463971048

Erin O'Quinn

Erin O’Quinn sprang from the high desert hills of Nevada, from a tiny town which no longer exists. A truant officer dragged her kicking and screaming to grade school, too late to attend kindergarten; and since that time her best education has come from the ground she’s walked and the people she's met.Erin has her own publishing venue, New Dawn Press. Her works cover the genres of M/M and M/F romance and also historical fantasy for all ages.

Book preview

Where There’s Smoke

Aidan Undercover 1

•

By Erin O’Quinn

Copyright © 2019 Erin O ’ Quinn

New Dawn Press

ISBN: 9780463971048

First electronic Edition published by New Dawn Press

Published in the United States of America with international distribution.

Cover Design by Erin O’Quinn (Bonita Franks) New-Dawn-Press-Logo-Color_200_pix.png

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author ’ s imagination or are used fictitiously; and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

WARNING: This writing contains explicit sexual descriptions and is intended for a mature audience over the age of 18

Foreword

I’ve fudged certain details…like the football team, and the actual addresses of characters… to ensure the privacy of real-world people. But most of the settings are as authentic as a writer can capture without standing there.

Those who’ve read the latest Nevada Highlander novel Sleeping with Danger will remember Aidan Williamson, who comes into his own in this novella. I hope this present work is the start of a whole new life for Aidan. But if not, he’s had one hell of a ride.

Introduction

Aidan Williamson, just another Police Scotland constable in a tiny Highlands hamlet, is plucked from his routine life into a case of murder most foul. Still wincing from the wounds of a recent separation, Aidan keeps his emotional life tucked in his trousers, out of sight. Until he encounters Kenneth Logan—a man in self-isolation at Devil’s Point. There’s a secret buried in those soul-deep eyes.

How long before the rookie detective gives in to his almost sensual attraction to all that’s profoundly mystifying? And who will survive the killing field in a place Scots call The Demon’s Penis?

Chapter 1

From the Ashes

P ain rode like a surly hitch-hiker in the small of his back.

Aidan leaned back in the creaky swivel chair, his long legs crossed on the splintered desk, trying to ease a distant ache.

Almost five o’clock. Time for the night shift to appear in the form of Michael Murphy. He lifted his reluctant feet off the scarred surface, careful not to scrape the shine off his PS-issued brogans, pretending he wasn’t bored to fucking death and in desperate need of a cigar and a bed, in any order.

His reports were complete. Check. He’d scanned the latest bulletins on his desktop computer. Check. He’d gone to the rescue of a tabby cat on a roof and an elderly man who’d lost his way in Ballater’s only bus station. Check. He’d answered the phone fifty times, at least, and only half of them remotely police matters.

Now what?

He tried not to think about the four walls waiting for him in his bland flat, or saying goodbye to Justin. Not see you later, or be good, man. Saying goodbye, farewell, sayonara.

The parting had been a year in the making. Justin’s work day getting longer…his own shift needing more scrupulous attention…their days off never seeming to coincide…their sex life  as routine as the Ballater Community W.A.T.C.H. he wrote up each week for the website.

We Are The Community Heart.

Ha.

He jittered his pen point against the scarred wood, trying not to think about his ex and his lack of sex.

So. Justin was now a clerk in the Aberdeen office of the Regional Judge.

He sighed. Not exactly a life filled with excitement and danger, like his own—the thrill-a-minute existence of a Sergeant Constable in the tiny Ballater office of Police Scotland.

At the sound of a vehicle pulling into the cramped concrete parking lot, he stood and pretended to scan the bulletins pinned to the cork board. Lost pets, alerts on suspected stalkers, lonely men lurking in petrol stations, commendations of model citizens, and even a few random constables in other towns who’d earned a promotion…

He turned to greet his office mate, and found another man altogether.

Detective Chief Inspector Grant MacDowell was no longer young, but he was a match for any officer on the force. Aidan didn’t know him, except to stand straighter and make eye contact on the few occasions their paths had crossed—one commemorative dinner, two funerals, and a corridor somewhere, maybe a year ago.

It was either a talent or a curse that Aiden could read character in someone’s eyes and body language. That hidden skill had served him well during the four years he’d toiled for Police Scotland. It had won a few friends…he thought about his ex, of course, and his recent meeting with the faux-Constables Alex and Rory…and the same ability had earned more than his share of arrests.

Even with his cap removed, the inspector stood over six feet, a shade under his own height. The sandy-gray hair, worn straight back from his forehead, lent him an almost leonine air, a feral animal trapped in a cage. His eyes, pale blue behind black rimmed glasses, hinted at an ancestry well beyond the Highlands and Islands. They were steel-hard, intelligent, restless, hungry…

MacDowell didn’t wait for Aidan to approach him. He strode the few paces to the bulletin board and held out his hand.

Sergeant Constable Williamson. Nice to see you again.

Since his superior had chosen to see him here, in his own tiny office late on a Friday afternoon, Aidan ungraciously thought it was hardly nice, but a surprise nonetheless. He respected MacDowell, but he hated rude awakenings.

What had he done wrong?

Fuck, Aidan, think positive. What have you done right?

He shook the proffered hand and smiled with his mouth and his eyes too. The man’s grasp was strong and honest.

The pleasure is mine, sir. Um, have a seat? Or…

Or not, Sergeant. I’ve come to whisk you away for an hour, tops. Your second-shift man Murphy should be here— he glanced at his watch—any minute now.

How did someone from the echelons of power know the name of his five-to-dawn partner? Or even his own? He’d done his homework, obviously.

Yes, sir. So you want to…

To take you somewhere with a bar top and a nodding acquaintance with a wee dram. Know any place close by? The ironic tone was not even necessary. The inspector wasn’t testing him. Most people knew Aidan liked his whisky and cigar.

He grinned. I recommend the Black Boar. Five minutes from here—but isn’t every place in Ballater?

MacDowell laughed outright. This village is a favorite of mine, but aye, ’tis not over-populated with pubs—or churches either. I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes. With that, he was gone.

Aidan thought of himself as a hard man to impress. But DCI MacDowell had left an indelible mark after uttering ten sentences, max.

From one of the thin lofty windows, he watched the man back his PS sedan out of the tricky space, turn, and disappear down the narrow street. Moments later, Michael Murphy pulled his battered Ford Focus into the lot. Across from their own duplex, old man Duffy and his son were raking a postage-stamp yard, and Mrs. Johnson was trying to get her poodle to pee on the rock wall. Just another five o’clock on Deebank Road, and he desperately wanted a cigar.

Michael, tossing his cap at a chair against the wall, had his uniform jacket half off before he reached his desk. If a crazy Irishman could be said to have smiling eyes, it was his partner in crime.

Who’s in trouble, Ade?

Meaning…?

That sedan I passed had CID plates. Was it lost?

Ah. No, you just missed MacDowell.

Just missed, no bloody joke. Shite, I’d hate to pay for a new paint job on his damn car. Why  would he even be here?

Aidan wasn’t sure his superior wanted anyone to know about their pub-side Dee-side meeting. He hedged his bet, as usual, and deflected the question.

Who knows what motivates these ranking officers, Mike. He probably stopped by to put in an appearance among the lowly ranks. He shrugged and took his constable cap off the wall hook next to the entry. Adjusting the brim, he opened the door and turned to say good night.

Michael, still grinning, stared into the screen of his desk computer. I think your ass is grass, mate.

Aye. For spitting on the sidewalk, or swearing in front of Mrs. Johnson. Or maybe a typo on my web report. See you on the other side, my friend.

Easy on the Cubanos, Ade, if that’s possible. Happy Fecking Friday. Have a pleasant evening.

He