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    The Private Eye Murders
    The Private Eye Murders
    The Private Eye Murders
    Ebook85 pages1 hour

    The Private Eye Murders

    By Wayne Greenough

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    Some people are convinced that Private Eye Thanet Blake is a social pariah. Others believe having contact with him insures them of having a short life. A few are convinced he works for the city’s mortuaries and drives a hearse.

    When Captain Holt of the Police Department informs Blake that PI’s are being offed by an unknown person, he asks Blake for help. “We don’t have a single clue as to who is doing the offing. We need your help to do some nosing around for us, come up with clues that will lead us to the perp. I’ll even put you on the payroll.”

    That starts another murder mystery for Thanet Blake, the shamus who hates murder cases because too many of his friends end up dead, or forever hurt. Who will he lose this time?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublishereXtasy Books Inc
    Release dateNov 15, 2012
    ISBN9781771113250
    The Private Eye Murders

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      Book preview

      The Private Eye Murders - Wayne Greenough

      Guys like Marlowe and Spade like murder cases. I don’t. I make it a point to hide from them. Too often, they find me.

      Some people are convinced that Private Eye Thanet Blake is a social pariah. Others believe having contact with him insures them of having a short life. A few are convinced he works for the city’s mortuaries and drives a hearse.

      When Captain Holt of the Police Department informs Blake that PI’s are being offed by an unknown person, he asks Blake for help. We don’t have a single clue as to who is doing the offing. We need your help to do some nosing around for us, come up with clues that will lead us to the perp. I’ll even put you on the payroll.

      That starts another murder mystery for Thanet Blake, the shamus who hates murder cases because too many of his friends end up dead, or forever hurt. Who will he lose this time?

      The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

      Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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

      The Private Eye Murders

      Copyright © 2012 Wayne Greenough

      ISBN: 978-1-77111-325-0

      Cover art by Carmen Waters

      All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

      Published by Devine Destinies

      An imprint of eXtasy Books

      Look for us online at:

      www.devinedestinies.com

      Smashwords Edition

      The Private Eye Murders

      The Private Detective Murders 2

      By

      Wayne Greenough

      To my wife, June

      The years are flying by, my dear, and may we have many more together.

      Chapter One

      My street-grimed office window revealed to me a typical fall day. Gray clouds were everywhere in the sky, with raindrops bouncing on the pavement like ball bearings dropped by some kids playing atop a high building. As usual, the streets were full of bumper-to-bumper automobiles, busily filling the atmosphere with exhaust fumes while their horns honked their musical tunes at the cars in front of them. The citizens of this wonderful city that I work in were busy as usual with their daily routines, walking the sidewalks to here, there and everywhere, with more than a few not knowing where they were going. Life is like that, especially for an animal called human.

      The war goes on. A lot of our guys are barely old enough to drive a car and they’re dying in foreign countries, away from their homes and away from the people they love. What a helluva thing to happen. It seems like almost everywhere in this stinking shit-pile world people are killing people nonstop. I’ll bet the killing just might continue forever. It certainly seems to be the new game on this screwed-up planet somebody named Earth way back when they probably had their face clubbed into the dirt by a next door neighbor at the time. That’s right, a game. The person who kills the most individuals—be they men, women, children, or a combination of all three—gets to drink human blood from the silver cup of humanitarian relations. Peace is a word to be found in the dictionary and nowhere else. Another word for hell is Earth.

      Last Friday, a local man pumped six bullets into his wife because they argued about whose turn it was to use the computer. My coroner friend said that any one of the six bullets was enough to have killed the woman. He then went on to remark that the husband had wasted ammunition on her.

      I’m not overly fond of Mondays. I was busy having my third shot of rye in an attempt to sober up from a long weekend drunk with Gordon Rumpott Adams. I know. You don’t need to tell me. I fell off the wagon three weeks after my first murder case ended. Honestly, though, how could I—or for that matter, anybody—face this homicidal world and be a nondrinker? Anyway, for some reason, the hair of the dog doesn’t seem to be working. I don’t appear to be sobering up. Maybe a fourth swig from the old bottle will do the trick.

      For those of you that might have a hangover as bad as mine and haven’t yet caught on to who I am, allow me introduce myself. I’m Thanet Blake, and I’m a Private Investigator. People know my profession by other names like dick, shamus, private eye, gumshoe, peeper, and other descriptive adjectives that shouldn’t be printed here, so therefore they won’t. However, I might print them later on. Anyway, I’m still drunk on my ass, so I start to sing.

      "Oh ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho-o-o…Me, me, me, me, me, me, and me-e-e e…"

      I’m looking for Thanet Blake, interrupted a voice with more volume than a Cape Cod foghorn. I looked up, and up, and up. The guy was seven feet tall if he was an inch. He appeared to be bolted to my floor like a thousand pound statue and he was right in front of my desk, looking at me with the one bloodshot eye that is free of bandages. The other eye, along with much of his face and head, I couldn’t see because there must have been at least ten miles of gauze bandages covering them.

      Who wants to know about Blake? I nonchalantly inquired between three rye burps.

      "I do. I’m Sander Davis. Thanet Blake’s office is supposed to be right here, but the door window says, Stay out, this dickhead contaminates the living. I’m looking for Thanet Blake, repeated the foghorn with the staring eye and blood-splotched bandages. I want Blake."

      My landlord is mad at me because, as usual, I’m behind in paying rent for my office. When

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