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    The Platinum Blond Perturbance
    The Platinum Blond Perturbance
    The Platinum Blond Perturbance
    Ebook70 pages1 hour

    The Platinum Blond Perturbance

    By Harvey Stanbrough

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    About this ebook

    She's platinum blond, wealthy and incredibly beautiful. She's a major socialite who makes all the rounds. From swinging with the club scene to owning a seat on the board of directors for every do-gooder organization in town.

    Well, she did have it all. Then the call comes over the radio.

    Trixie Burton is dead, and Detective Lou Galecki is determined to find out why.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStoneThread Publishing
    Release dateMay 15, 2018
    ISBN9780463265017
    The Platinum Blond Perturbance
    Author

    Harvey Stanbrough

    Harvey Stanbrough is an award-winning writer and poet. He’s fond of saying he was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas, and baked in Arizona. After 21 years in the US Marine Corps, he managed to sneak up on a BA degree at Eastern New Mexico University in Portales in 1996. Because he is unable to do otherwise, he splits his writing personality among four personas: Gervasio Arrancado writes magic realism; Nicolas Z “Nick” Porter writes spare, descriptive, Hemingway-style fiction; and Eric Stringer writes the fiction of an unapologetic neurotic. Harvey writes whatever they leave to him. You can see their full bios at HEStanbrough.com.

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      Book preview

      The Platinum Blond Perturbance - Harvey Stanbrough

      The Platinum Blond Perturbance

      Harvey Stanbrough

      the Smashwords Edition of

      a novella from StoneThread Publishing

      To give the reader more of a sample, the front matter appears at the end.

      The Platinum Blond Perturbance

      In my unmarked Crown Vic, I peered through my binoculars, checking for an address.

      The car was unmarked for stealth. You know, so it would go unnoticed.

      Like my nondescript suit and tie in a neighborhood full of ribbed a-frame t-shirts and wife-beaters.

      Like my hawk nose and sharp jaw and lightly tanned white face.

      Like my short-cut dark brown hair and blue eyes.

      I refocused the binocs.

      The house looked like all the other red-bricks up and down the street. Out front was a poured cement stoop with seven steps and a narrow black base-metal railing along one side. The steps led up to a door in peeling brown paint set in a dingy red-brick wall.

      The light bulb in the black metal fixture near the top right corner of the door was busted out, along with the frosted glass globe that used to shield it. There should have been five brass numbers a foot or so below that, but they were long-since gone too.

      Still, I was able to double check the address against the address on either side and the one across the street. That was the main reason for the binoculars.

      I got nothing against exercise, but I never partake unnecessarily. Especially an hour before the end of my shift. An hour before a TV dinner, a beer and a good cigar.

      This was the place all right.

      I laid the binocs in the passenger seat and tugged on the door handle.

      How well my Crown Vic and I fit-in to the neighborhood was reflected up and down the street.

      When I first turned onto the street, there were kids playing in yards, older kids lounging on stoops, parents leaning out second-story windows yelling down to various reprobates.

      But when I stepped out of the car, crickets. You could have heard a hypodermic needle drop. The place looked like a ghost town.

      Okay, so good. No witnesses to canvass.

      As I closed the car door behind me, I shook my head, stepped up onto the curb and headed for the stoop. A breeze came up, and dry, dead leaves from the one-tree-per-yard to the west began a migration to the east.

      At the top of the stoop, the door hung one-third to one-fourth open on rusted hinges. Which position and which note the hinges made depended on the breeze at the time. It screeched to one-third in one direction, groaned to one-fourth the other.

      I wasn’t sure why the door was open at all, but it beat going through the whole knock and announce thing.

      I reached across under my jacket and eased my Kimber .45 out of my shoulder holster with my right hand. I kind of wished Joe was here.

      Joe Balducci, my regular partner since I moved to the day shift, was on vacation in Florida. Like he needed more sun. But a guy’s gotta have a break now and then, am I right? I ought to be happy for him, layin’ on a beach somewhere suckin’ up margaritas. But the idea wasn’t all that appealing at the moment.

      I wasn’t sure when he was due back, but it must be before too long.

      ‘Course I could have brought a rookie with me. There were three in the bull pen back at the precinct. Only I ain’t big on training newbies. Besides, I was thinkin’ of a little R&R myself. You know, just an extra hour or two.

      So with the day dwindling I talked to the captain. Made some excuse about another case I was working and told him I’d see him tomorrow.

      He just nodded.

      As I turned away I announced I was going to the bathroom, which is through the double doors and down the hall from the bull pen. I said it as if it was meant for the captain, but just loud enough so everybody would hear me. And I did make a stop there, but only to grab my jacket from where I’d hung it near a mirror earlier.

      Then I got out of the building by myself, slipped into my department car and drove away. I was still patting myself on the back when dispatch called with this one.

      And here I was.

      With my Kimber ready, I put two fingers of my left hand on the door and pushed lightly. Police, I said, Detective Galecki. Anybody home?

      Well, I knew there was somebody home. Dispatch had told me that much by name. Not that she’d say anything. Dead people are notorious for not being responsive. But I announced anyway. It’s usually better to know in advance if the perp’s still around too. And some of ‘em are stupid enough to tell you.

      I looked down so I could concentrate on listening. I looked at the threshold, listened for breathing. Or footsteps. Any signs of life.

      Even in a breeze and with leaves rustling by on the sidewalk behind you, you can still hear breathing if you listen. It just takes concentration and a little time.

      The threshold was unique. It was really an old rotted one-by, unlacquered and faded to a bland, cracked off-white. The

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