A Valentine to Die For

By Aver Rigsly

FROM EXCITING ROMANCE AUTHOR AVER RIGSLY

Book one in the Noir Nights series

Having a secret admirer can be deadly.

Ricky Morris, private investigator on New York's elite Upper East Side, has forged a shady yet profitable life as a gumshoe for wealthy Manhattanites after burning the bridge to his law enforcement past. When women in the city are targeted by a sweet-toothed murderer in the week leading up to Valentine's Day, the last thing Ricky expects is to be hired by the younger brother of the man who ruined his life.

Timothy Ward, young, fresh patrolman for the N.Y.P.D. who never thought he'd have to step outside the law, finds himself in desperate need of Ricky's help when he fears his brother, James Ward, the Deputy Chief, could be behind the murdering spree.

With Valentine's Day fast approaching, both men will have to work in the shadows, putting their careers and lives on the line to get to the bottom of the murderer's sickly sweet and cruel plans. That is, if the burning heat of the undeniable—and very forbidden—lust between them doesn't consume them in the flames of reckless desire first...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pride Publishing
• Release date: Feb 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781839431777

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Pride Publishing books by Aver Rigsly

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Starlings Again

The Beauty Beneath

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Naughty or Nice?: Twelve Kinks of Christmas

Noir Nights

A VALENTINE TO DIE FOR

AVER RIGSLY

A Valentine to Die For

ISBN # 978-1-83943-177-7

©Copyright Aver Rigsly 2022

Cover Art by Fiona Jayde ©Copyright February 2022

Interior text design by Claire Siemaszkiewicz

Pride Publishing

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Pride Publishing.

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The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

Published in 2022 by Pride Publishing, United Kingdom.

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If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as unsold and destroyed to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this stripped book.

Book one in the Noir Nights series

Having a secret admirer can be deadly.

Ricky Morris, private investigator on New York’s elite Upper East Side, has forged a shady yet profitable life as a gumshoe for wealthy Manhattanites after burning the bridge to his law enforcement past. When women in the city are targeted by a sweet-toothed murderer in the week leading up to Valentine’s Day, the last thing Ricky expects is to be hired by the younger brother of the man who ruined his life.

Timothy Ward, young, fresh patrolman for the N.Y.P.D. who never thought he’d have to step outside the law, finds himself in desperate need of Ricky’s help when he fears his brother, James Ward, the Deputy Chief, could be behind the killing spree.

With Valentine’s Day fast approaching, both men will have to work in the shadows, putting their careers and lives on the line to get to the bottom of the murderer’s sickly sweet and cruel plans. That is, if the burning heat of undeniable—and very forbidden—lust between them doesn’t consume them in the flames of reckless desire first…

Dedication

To Cam, my dearest love.

Trademark Acknowledgements

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Boy Scout: Boy Scouts of America

Buick: General Motors Company

Crime Does Not Pay: Lev Gleason Publications

Ford: Ford Motor Company

Frigidaire: Frigidaire Appliance Company

Hudson: Hudson Motor Car Company

Justice Traps the Guilty: Crestwood Publications

Kleenex: Kimberly-Clark Corporation

Kodak: Eastman Kodak Company

Lucky Strikes: British American Tobacco plc

Maytag: Maytag Corporation

Minifon: Protona GmbH

Murray’s: Murray’s Superior Products Co.

NorthStar: Northstar Electronics

Philco: The Philips Company

Rolex: Rolex SA

Schenley’s: Schenley Industries

Smith and Wesson: Smith & Wesson Brands, Inc.

Studebaker: Studebaker Corporation

The New York Times: The New York Times Company

The Post: News Corporation

Tupperware: Tupperware Brands Corporation

Zippo: Zippo Manufacturing Company

Chapter One

February 1954.

New York City.

Mrs. Banks…this is going to be hard to hear.

What exactly are you telling me, Mr. Morris?

Ricky’s head was pounding, right behind his eyes and down the back of his neck. A full-blown shit-show of a hangover. He took a last puff of his cigarette and smooshed the butt of it out in the ashtray.

I’m sorry to say, but it’s what you were afraid of.

I knew it, she snapped, her ruby-painted lips pursed tight. I just knew it.

Unfortunately, I have photo evidence here of your husband, on multiple occasions, visiting, let’s say…some of the less savory parts of the city, ma’am.

He reached into the top drawer of his desk, plucked out a glossy photograph and slid it across for Mrs. Banks to inspect.

And who is she? Who is the whore?

"Actually, there are three different broads here." He pulled out a couple more photos, a short stack of four-by-five gelatin silver prints that he had developed himself in his makeshift darkroom. He laid the photos out, candid shots of Mr. Banks in his snazzy Buick Roadmaster, ladies hanging in through the passenger-side window, sitting beside him in the car, kissing the side of Mr. Banks’ thick neck—and those were just the photos that were considered decent compared to the others processing down the hall.

"I should have goddamn known. Theo is a fucking pig and always has been."

Ricky raised his eyebrows but kept his cool, nodding to make her feel better. That was just Mrs. Banks—that sharp tongue of hers was very unladylike, no matter how expensive her silk pantyhose and real mink coat were, or how many strands of pearls she looped over her hand-tailored housedress.

Regardless, she wasn’t wrong about Mr. Banks. Ricky had spent the last week tailing Theodore Banks around the Financial District. Theo was a man who knew how to make dough. A pencil-pushing broker, Banks was the perfect example of a man whose money didn’t buy happiness. His wife was half his age—a stunning doll in her own right—and Ricky had noticed the moment they’d met how well she presented herself. She was a real looker of a dame, but Theo had a wandering eye and a penchant for not keeping his prick in his pants.

It was sort of pathetic how easy it had been to track him down and snap the photos of him getting a messy blow job in the front seat of his Buick. The fella had hardly lasted more than five minutes. Ricky did not envy Mrs. Banks, the poor woman, considering what she must deal with in the marital bed.

What the hell am I supposed to do now? she asked, digging into her handbag and rummaging around before pulling out a sleek chrome cigarette case. She popped the clasp and pulled out a menthol from the red velvet-lined inside. Her hands were shaking.

Here, let me. Ricky stood and leaned over the desk, offering her a light from his silver Zippo. Her red lips wrapped around the end of the cigarette and smoke curled up as she took the first few puffs.

Thank you, she said.

Of course, and, Mrs. Banks? As for the…delicate predicament you find yourself in…

Yes?

As I see it, your best course of action would be to pursue a legal divorce.

Divorce? Like hire a lawyer?

"That would be what I would do in your position, ma’am. You’ve suffered long and hard from a husband who is not only an adulterer, but who has also been recklessly spending your household income on lewd, and may I add, illegal activities."

Well, yes. Who knows how much money he’s thrown away on those filthy prostitutes?

Exactly, ma’am. May I ask, Mrs. Banks, is your name also on all your husband’s accounts?

Yes…

"Well, I'm certain that if you ask a bank teller to show you all withdrawal statements for the past few months, you will see quite a bit of cash being removed. I could even give you the dates that all these photographs were taken, which I suspect would match the same dates of the withdrawals. On top of that, Ricky said, hardly feeling the pounding headache as he played his role of charming confidant, while these photos here might be argued against and possibly dismissed by the right defender in a court of law, I have in my possession downright illicit photographs that would be impossible to sweep under the rug. The more proof of the wrongdoing built against the accused, the better chance the court will grant you a larger portion of your husband’s estate."

Is that so? Her cigarette smoldered forgotten between her fingers, her hands no longer shaking.

Yes, indeed. Between the photos I have and any bank statements showing the frivolous spending, you could make out with quite a pretty penny, Mrs. Banks. More than enough, I’d say, to keep a lady such as yourself very comfortable.

At least until I find a second husband, she quipped. I can’t help but notice that you aren’t wearing a wedding band, Mr. Morris. Are you single? Or maybe that quiet blonde girl at the door is your girlfriend?

You mean Liz? No, she’s just my secretary and close friend. And I have never been interested in marriage. I’m a simple bachelor and I enjoy it that way.

Such a shame, she said. "So, what do I owe you? For your services, and for those other photographs you mentioned. I would very much like to purchase those as well."

In my line of work as a private investigator, I am often the bearer of bad news, and I feel terrible for your hardship, ma’am, so I’ll give you a courtesy discount. It would be my honor. How about we call it…eight hundred and fifty for everything, and I’ll be happy to have done business with you, Mrs. Banks.

Do you accept traveler’s checks?

Of course, ma’am.

Splendid. She dug around in her handbag again, and Ricky leaned back in his chair. He lit a new cigarette, pleased with himself. Tonight, he was going to order a juicy steak dinner with all the fixings and a hefty glass of whiskey to go along with it. Jobs like these were perfect for milking desperate housewives. Show them a few pictures of their sleazy asshole husbands, and they turned to putty in his hands. Gold-diggers like Mrs. Banks were the best kind of all—all too eager to spend their husband’s money.

She handed over the checks, almost nine-hundred-bucks’ worth, and Ricky tucked them safely into his desk drawer.

Much thanks indeed, ma’am.

Thank you, Mr. Morris. I will be sure to mention your name if any of my friends need similar help.

That’s all I can ask for, ma’am. You know where to send them. My door is always open to those in need.

If they had the green for it. Simple as that.

Chapter Two

Have a good evening, Mrs. Campbell. I promise to look into that missing portrait for you first thing tomorrow morning.

Ricky inched behind old Mrs. Campbell, who was one of his regular clients. The thing was, she came every Monday at five-thirty p.m. like clockwork, and every week she tried to hire Ricky for the same thing. Mrs. Campbell was convinced that three men had broken into her home on Park Avenue and stolen the portrait of her mother that she had kept above her fireplace for thirty-six years. She claimed that at half-past midnight she saw the crooks, all no taller than three feet supposedly, creep through her parlor, scale the rough brick fireplace and make off with the painting out through the front door.

Now Ricky wouldn’t be surprised if her mother’s portrait had gone missing, but it was most likely one of her no-good hoodlum sons who’d nicked it in the middle of the night to make some extra clams in a pinch. Mrs. Campbell had a hard time remembering much of anything anymore, even losing her train of thought when she came by to report her usual theft, which Ricky could almost recite by heart now.

Bless your heart, Richard, said Mrs. Campbell, shuffling through Ricky’s foyer where his secretary’s desk sat planted by the front door. Elizabeth Cook, Liz to most, smiled and said her usual goodbye to Mrs. Campbell.

Good night to you, too, Miss Elizabeth. Now when do I need to bring in payment, Richard?

Like I said, ma’am. As soon as I find your mother’s portrait for you, then we’ll talk cash. Although I’m sure me and Liz here would be plenty happy with some of your famous cheesecake that we’ve heard so much about. Ricky opened the door and held it for her.

Oh! I will certainly add the ingredients to my shopping list. It takes four whole hours to bake it properly, you know.

We can’t wait to try it. Take care, Mrs. Campbell.

You too, dears.

She shuffled down the few steps and out of the door, onto the sidewalk. Liz let out a long sigh of relief. Her bushy blonde hair was starting to fall from her neatly pinned hairdo. It was hard to tame all that hair into place, it seemed, but it gave her a sort of strange, exhausted beauty that was real, unlike the department-store models and the glitzy dames in the movies.

Liz was an honest, down-to-earth person, and if Ricky were into that sort of thing, he would have found her extremely attractive. Probably would have flirted with her relentlessly in high school if they had known each other