fuonlyknew

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Sunscreen Shower

A Detective Kev Dixit Novel 2

by J.P. Rieger

Genre: Crime Mystery, Dark Comedy

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Baltimore Police Detective Kev Dixit is being stalked by a
psychopath. He’s also saving lives and solving crimes. And he’s late for
dinner.

Dixit temporarily heads the Criminal Investigation Division,
a real stress inducer. Aided by humorless partners and eccentric high school
friends, he investigates two vexing cases. Spouses are found shot to death in
their home. Murder-suicide is the obvious call, considering one spouse had just
cleaned out the couple’s joint accounts the day before. But all is not as it
seems when Forensics takes a closer look at the victims’ DNA. Later, Dixit and
his assigned mentee investigate a car bombing. What kind of person would
viciously murder a likeable gym rat?

Oh, and that murder-suicide. It reminded Dixit of an earlier
investigation, back when he was a mere newbie detective. One where he worked
tirelessly to solve a string of increasingly vicious serial attacks on single
women. One where he barely escaped with his life.

“A smartly plotted murder mystery set in Baltimore and
filled with memorable, local characters. Hugely enjoyable!”

The Wishing Shelf – Five Stars

“The author has crafted a masterful mystery novel with a
story full of unexpected twists and turns. . . . A great detective story with a
clever ending.”

Kirkus Reviews

“Rieger seamlessly weaves together a gritty crime
investigation, with a dark, delirious comedy. . . . A clever, funny and
wonderfully strange crime detective novel.”

Readers’ Choice Book Awards – Five Stars

“As a police procedural, this patiently crafted thriller is
methodical in its investigative storytelling and slow-burn character
development . . . With plenty of twists and dramatic reveals to keep readers
hooked, but still in the dark about the full story, this tangled mystery is
entertaining from the first page.”

Self-Publishing Review

“Rieger ensures that cases are solved through meticulous
police investigations rather than fortuitous breaks, adding a layer of
authenticity to the story. This attention to detail makes the narrative feel
genuine and engaging, particularly for fans of police procedurals. . . . The
book offers a unique blend of intense action and emotional introspection,
making it a worthwhile addition to the genre.”

Literary Titan

Amazon
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December 2000

The man circled the block just once, precisely according to his plan. He quietly pulled in behind the parked car. He knew which house. He had watched them enter as he drove past the first time. He clicked off the radio’s switch. It had done the trick, as usual. He had heard the badge number and gotten to the scene nearly as quickly as they did.

He took a deep breath. He felt his heart beat faster and deeper. His nerves jangled, electrically fueled by adrenaline. He was happy. No, better than just happy. He felt thrilled, excited. He had never given up on his mission. He had tracked down his prey, finally, to the nondescript house in Hampden. Here it would end.

He removed the Glock from the glove box and placed it into the outer right pocket of his polar fleece. He exited his parked car and closed the door slowly, so very gently, with just enough force to click the door shut. He moved his body against the cloudy twilight toward the house, breathing deeply. The gun tapped against his gut as he walked, annoying him. He had to hold his jacket pocket against his body to stop the movement. But that discomfort, like the rest of the incessant annoyances he continually suffered, would soon be forgotten. Knowing that gave him solace.

He smiled as he approached the home. The dilapidated gray siding of the house smiled back, crookedly. He saw his hand trembling ever so slightly as he grasped the doorknob. He steeled himself and turned the doorknob quietly in the latch, careful to not open the door. Unlocked. He heard muffled sounds. A woman sobbing and a man’s voice speaking loudly. He couldn’t make out the words. Then laughter. He wasn’t sure what was going on inside.

He took the Glock from his fleece pocket, grasping it firmly. He raised his boot-swaddled right foot higher, then yet higher, and kicked forward violently. The wood panel splintered in its frame as the door thrust open, slamming sharply against the living room wall. Instantly, he saw the big older cop standing four yards away in front of a fireplace, grimacing and waving at him like a little child, with his four fingers up by his face. A man in a dark hoodie stood directly behind the big guy, shadowing him, pulling at something, pulling and grunting. The cop continued to hold his hand up by his ear, waving, waving, mutely wriggling his four fingers like a child. The gunman fought the instinct to wave back. Then he heard the muffled sound of a woman sobbing to his left, at the bottom of the staircase. She wore a dark hood over her head. Her wrists were bound behind her. She was curled into the fetal position.

A moment later, in his foreground, he saw his prey, the uniformed cop, back turned, standing over the sofa facing the fireplace. He watched his prey turn toward him looking surprised . . . confused. His prey was holding something in his hand, a round thing with a handle. A frying pan?

He spied the badge number of the man with the frying pan. It was him. The cop was now raising the pan high, about to strike at him. He aimed the Glock point-blank and fired two shots into the cop’s chest. The cop’s body fell backward against the sofa. He watched the cop writhing in agony, trying to right himself against the sofa. He saw the frying pan drop from the cop’s hand and heard the dull metal sound as it hit the floor.

The cop was now doubled over the back of the sofa, moaning but still moving, still trying to right himself. The man spent a quiet moment enjoying the cop’s suffering. And then another moment. Then he took two paces forward and placed the muzzle of the gun against the back of the cop’s skull and pulled the trigger.  Blood and tissue spattered in every direction, some slapping quietly against the shooter’s clothing and face.

The man looked around the room one last time, first toward the sobbing woman and then at the waving man and hooded figure. He wasn’t concerned with any of them. He had carried out his mission. He had avenged his father’s death. He had killed Kev Dixit. There was only one thing left to do. His life was as good as over. He had killed a cop. He sure as hell was not going back to prison. He held the nose of the gun up against his right temple and gently squeezed the trigger.

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**Don’t miss the first Detective Kev Dixit Novel – Clonk! **

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Find it on Amazon

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What literary pilgrimages have you gone on?

1. Paul Rieger © 1924

 

I travelled to London about twenty years ago and decided to track down the present location of Furnival’s Inn. Furnival’s Inn is probably best known for being the abode of Charles Dickens. He lived there for about four years in the 1830’s and apparently wrote his first novel, The Pickwick Papers, as a resident. But that’s not why I decided to track it down. I actually sought out Furnival’s because it was the home of one of my favorite fictional characters, Romney Pringle. Pringle was the literary invention of writers Austin Freeman and John J. Pitcairn who wrote pseudonymously as “Clifford Ashdown.” Freeman went on to become the pioneer of the medical detective story. His Dr. Thorndyke character was both a forensic investigator and barrister.

Romney Pringle, on the other hand, was a bachelor rogue. He leased an abode/office at Furnival’s Inn as a purported literary agent. But such was merely a cover. As mentioned in the first Pringle story The Assyrian Rejuvenator: “According to high authority, the reason of being of the literary agent is to act as a buffer between the ravening publisher and his prey. But … little or no business appeared to be transacted in the chambers. The buffer was at present idle, if it could be said to have ever worked!”

Pringle’s claim to fame was his ability to install himself invisibly into an ongoing conflict and walk away with its treasure. The Pringle stories are both hilarious and clever. Pringle is an avid bicyclist and there are many London scenes and landmarks referenced in the stories. Pringle’s precise address at Furnival’s was on the second floor, “No. 33, on the left as you enter from Holborn.”

Alas, the building is no longer there. It was torn down in 1889 to make way for a very grand Prudential Insurance building, now called Holborn Bars. However, I did find a bust of Dickens in the portico along with a plaque mentioning Furnival’s Inn. Interestingly, Dickens described Furnival’s Inn in his novel Martin Chuzzlewit: “There are snug chambers in those Inns where the bachelors live, and, for the desolate fellows they pretend to be, it is quite surprising how well they get on.” Perhaps Dickens ran into the desolate bachelor, Romney Pringle, while living and writing there?

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