Hard Fall: A gripping, noir detective thriller (Thomas Blume series of Hard-Boiled Mysteries, Book 1) Read Online Free
Author: P.T. Reade
Tags: Crime, Private Investigators, Noir, Hard-Boiled Mysteries, Detective Thrillers
leave me alone. I could hear their muffled voices and footfalls echoing back down the corridor and to the steps beyond. They had no evidence of my wrongdoing, and for now they couldn’t charge me with anything.
Shaking, I walked to my desk and picked up the camera. Then, without realizing what I was doing, I slammed it down on the desk. When it did not break, I threw it hard to the floor. It cracked, the lens popping out and the body splintering.
I stood for a moment trembling, as anger and grief washed through me.
It’s not your fault, Sarah’s voice finally whispered to me. My own voice would have pushed more and more guilt on. In a way, I guess I deserved it. But, as always, it was Sarah that was the voice of reason. Not your fault…
I collapsed into my chair, deflated, and fired up my computer. I had nothing to do, but I desperately wanted to use my time in some way other than occupying real estate at the pub.
Anthony Taylor was dead and in less than two weeks the cops would be back, and next time I wouldn’t be able to keep them out. I’d be bundled on the first plane back to America, flying away from any hope of justice for my family. I couldn’t leave this country, not yet. I had a job to do.
I started off by opening my browser and shopping for a new camera. I had fourteen days to get it together, or everything was lost.
FOUR
It was a comfortable betrayal.
Three days after the two police came by my office and tried to suffocate me with a guilt trip about Anthony Taylor, I got another knock on my door. I was taking practice shots with my new camera, getting used to the zoom, flash, and all of that stuff. It was another Canon. I had never considered myself loyal to any brand, but for some reason, I found cameras to be the exception. I was also nursing a hangover from pounding beer the night before. It had been a rough night — one of those where the memories of Sarah and Tommy were demonic poltergeists haunting my apartment. Forcing me to remain in limbo between sleep and consciousness.
I looked up to the door, somehow certain that this would be the two cops again. Maybe they found my name somewhere else in Anthony’s personal belongings.
I almost didn’t answer it but figured that would be stupid. And besides, I still felt as if I owed Anthony something.
I was relieved to see that the two cops were not standing there. Instead, there was a short but muscular man in his forties with thinning midnight black hair and intense eyes. Most people would have been alarmed by his intimidating appearance, but I knew differently. Amir Mazra was one of the kindest and most insightful men I’d met. He was the owner of the restaurant below and originally from Iran or Afghanistan or somewhere like that. Right then I realized I’d knew little about the Middle East and felt ashamed for a second.
“Hey Amir,” I said.
“Thomas. Come on. Let’s have lunch.”
“Downstairs?” I asked, looking to the floor. “No offense, but I smell it every day. It smells delicious, but I’ve had my fill.”
“Fine,” he said. “Let’s go out. Your choice.”
“What’s the occasion?” I asked.
He thought about this for a moment and answered slowly. “I haven’t seen much of you lately,” he said. “And when I have, it’s usually watching you go past the fire escape window, stumbling up the steps.”
“Is this an intervention?” I asked him, laughing humorlessly.
“No. It is an invitation to lunch from a man that hopes you see him as a friend.”
I nodded, reminded at how well Amir was able to push bullshit to the side and get sentimental in a way that was not only intense, but heartfelt. He was, in a way, the only living connection I had to my New York roots.
“Steak?” I said, realizing that I was in fact suddenly starving.
“Turn the lights off,” Amir said. “Don’t waste electricity.”
I looked back
Shaking, I walked to my desk and picked up the camera. Then, without realizing what I was doing, I slammed it down on the desk. When it did not break, I threw it hard to the floor. It cracked, the lens popping out and the body splintering.
I stood for a moment trembling, as anger and grief washed through me.
It’s not your fault, Sarah’s voice finally whispered to me. My own voice would have pushed more and more guilt on. In a way, I guess I deserved it. But, as always, it was Sarah that was the voice of reason. Not your fault…
I collapsed into my chair, deflated, and fired up my computer. I had nothing to do, but I desperately wanted to use my time in some way other than occupying real estate at the pub.
Anthony Taylor was dead and in less than two weeks the cops would be back, and next time I wouldn’t be able to keep them out. I’d be bundled on the first plane back to America, flying away from any hope of justice for my family. I couldn’t leave this country, not yet. I had a job to do.
I started off by opening my browser and shopping for a new camera. I had fourteen days to get it together, or everything was lost.
FOUR
It was a comfortable betrayal.
Three days after the two police came by my office and tried to suffocate me with a guilt trip about Anthony Taylor, I got another knock on my door. I was taking practice shots with my new camera, getting used to the zoom, flash, and all of that stuff. It was another Canon. I had never considered myself loyal to any brand, but for some reason, I found cameras to be the exception. I was also nursing a hangover from pounding beer the night before. It had been a rough night — one of those where the memories of Sarah and Tommy were demonic poltergeists haunting my apartment. Forcing me to remain in limbo between sleep and consciousness.
I looked up to the door, somehow certain that this would be the two cops again. Maybe they found my name somewhere else in Anthony’s personal belongings.
I almost didn’t answer it but figured that would be stupid. And besides, I still felt as if I owed Anthony something.
I was relieved to see that the two cops were not standing there. Instead, there was a short but muscular man in his forties with thinning midnight black hair and intense eyes. Most people would have been alarmed by his intimidating appearance, but I knew differently. Amir Mazra was one of the kindest and most insightful men I’d met. He was the owner of the restaurant below and originally from Iran or Afghanistan or somewhere like that. Right then I realized I’d knew little about the Middle East and felt ashamed for a second.
“Hey Amir,” I said.
“Thomas. Come on. Let’s have lunch.”
“Downstairs?” I asked, looking to the floor. “No offense, but I smell it every day. It smells delicious, but I’ve had my fill.”
“Fine,” he said. “Let’s go out. Your choice.”
“What’s the occasion?” I asked.
He thought about this for a moment and answered slowly. “I haven’t seen much of you lately,” he said. “And when I have, it’s usually watching you go past the fire escape window, stumbling up the steps.”
“Is this an intervention?” I asked him, laughing humorlessly.
“No. It is an invitation to lunch from a man that hopes you see him as a friend.”
I nodded, reminded at how well Amir was able to push bullshit to the side and get sentimental in a way that was not only intense, but heartfelt. He was, in a way, the only living connection I had to my New York roots.
“Steak?” I said, realizing that I was in fact suddenly starving.
“Turn the lights off,” Amir said. “Don’t waste electricity.”
I looked back
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