Do you like to read, write, or watch noir mysteries?
In my erotic murder mystery called “Taken In”, I write about
a noir detective. He falls for the seductive prime suspect in a case he’s
investigating. It’s a battle of the
sexes that has some scenes of bondage and sexual power play in it and is meant
for adults only. I channeled Bogart and Bacall when I created the main
characters.
Here’s an excerpt:
Detective Harrison saw police cars and CSI vans in the front
of the house where the man was killed and parked across the street from a row
of grand houses—certainly not his usual crime scene. The mansion’s graceful arches and lush garden
were now cordoned off—violated by crime scene tape. He stepped out of his car
to see what waited for him behind the closed doors. What secrets did these wealthy people hide
from the rest of their high society friends?
He stepped under the crime scene tape, climbed up to the
front door, and pushed it open. The
front room had expensive antique furniture and area rugs covered a perfectly
polished hardwood floor. He saw a wall
safe with its door open. Crime scene
investigators dusted for prints and took photographs. He recognized a patrol officer and walked
over to him.
“Hey, Sergeant Avery.
What happened here? Were you the
first on the scene?”
“Yes, I was. There’s
our dead guy, Mr. Charles Forshey, over there,” he told him, pointing to a man
in his mid-fifties who was tied to a chair.
Detective Harrison walked over to him and the sergeant
followed.
Harrison looked at the rope pattern that tied the victim’s
arms and said, “Hmmm. That’s interesting?”
“What is?”
He pointed to the man’s arms. “Look how intricately the rope
was tied. Somebody had skills tying
things up and knew what they were doing.
It would have taken some time to strap him in like this.”
“If someone was trying to tie me up against my will, I would
have been flaying my arms around.”
“It looks like he cooperated with whoever tied him up.”
“Maybe he knew his killer?”
“Possibly.” He walked
around the chair and saw the blood caked on the back of the victim’s head.
“It looks like he was shot execution-style.”
“We’ll know more after the coroner examines him. Have you been able to find the gun?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Who called it in?”
“His wife.
Apparently, she was on a business trip and when she arrived home, found
him dead.”
“How’s she holding up?”
“She’s having a hard time.”
“Where is she?”
“In the courtyard by the fountain, last I saw her.”
“What’s her name?”
“Jessica Forshey.”
“Okay. Thanks. I’ll go see how she’s doing.”
He left the house and walked along a stone path lined with
rose bushes on either side and saw a woman sitting at a table with her back to
him. The first things he noticed were her shapely calves. One leg was crossed
over the other and he saw the red-lacquered sole of a Christian Louboutin
designer shoe, his footwear of choice for his submissives. Trying not to
startle her, he walked in front of the table and said, “Ms. Forshey...”
She jumped upon seeing him, uncrossed her legs, and sat up
straight. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m Detective Jay Harrison. I’m in charge of this case.” He
showed her his badge.
“I see,” she answered, wiping her eyes, wet from crying. Her
beauty took his breath away. She bore a striking resemblance to Lauren Bacall
when she starred in To Have and Have Not. Her shoulder-length blonde
hair was softly curled and parted on the side. Her eyes were a perfect mixture
of blue and green and her eyebrows were perfectly arched, looking as if she
could see right through anyone who talked to her. She wore a checkered jacket
and a tight white blouse that just barely reined in her large breasts.
He cleared his throat and tried to stop thinking about how
sexy she was. Sitting down at the table across from her, he said, “I know this
is a difficult time and I’ll try not to inconvenience you too much.”
“Thank you,” she softly answered, and held an embroidered
handkerchief up to her nose.
“I just have a few questions. I understand that you were
gone on a business trip, came home from the airport, and found him dead.”
“That’s right.”
“What airline did you take?”
“Delta.”
“What city did you visit?”
“Atlanta.”
“And what kind of business?”
“I’m a buyer. There was a convention I attended.”
“I see. Is there anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts
over the last 24 hours?”
“I was on a plane. Everyone could vouch for me if they
remembered what I look like.”
“Oh, I think they’d definitely remember your face.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, because you are very beautiful.”
She blushed deeply and he could see that she liked to be
complimented. That may come in handy later, he told himself.
“How did you get back to your house?”
“I drove home. I left my car in the airport’s parking
garage. Why all the questions?”
“We always ask the person who found the body these
questions. Often, the killer knew the victim.”
“You’re making me nervous,” she said and reached for a pack
of cigarettes on the table. She put one in her mouth and he picked up a silver
lighter lying on the table. When he lit her cigarette, she rested her
fingertips on his hand and then slowly and sensually blew out a cloud of smoke.
She glanced over at him and smiled.
He looked at the lighter more closely and read, “JRF. Are
these your initials?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your middle name?”
“Roberta.”
“Very personalized. I like it when things are engraved. It’s
classy.”
“If you say so.”
“Okay, Ms. Forshey—"
“Call me Jessica,” she flirted.
“Ms. Forshey,” he insisted, “What was the first thing you
saw when you came home?”
“The front door was open. I thought that maybe my husband
had forgotten to close it. He’s been quite forgetful lately. He had early-onset
dementia.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that.”
“Tragic,” she said, flicking the ash off her cigarette into
an oyster shell ashtray on the table.
“What did you see next?”
“The door to the safe was open.”
“Was it empty?”
“Yes. Someone took my jewelry and two gold bars.”
“Did your safe have a painting in front of it?”
“Yes. A landscape by Cezanne. I’m surprised the burglar
didn’t take it. It’s worth a fortune.”
“I’ll have to take a look. Cezanne is one of my favorite
artists.”
“Mine, too,” she answered and looked at him with a disarming
smile.
“When did you notice that your husband was in the room?”
“Shortly after that.”
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill him?”
“No. Everyone liked him. He didn’t have any enemies.”
“Oh, okay.”
He was quiet for a few beats and then asked, “Do you or your
husband own a gun?”
“My husband kept one in a bedroom drawer.”
“Is it still there?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t looked.”
Which bedroom was yours?”
“His was upstairs to the left.”
He thought, hmmm…they
don’t sleep together. Why not? Is there trouble in paradise?
“I’ll take a look before I leave.”
“Am I under arrest, Detective?”
“Should you be?”
“Do you always answer a question with a question?” Sounding
defensive she said, “I wasn’t even in town. Ask my employer if you need
confirmation.”
“I will. Where do you work?”
“At Saks Fifth Avenue.”
He handed his card to her. “Please write down your
supervisor’s name and phone number.”
After she had done so and given him back his card, he said,
“One more thing. Have you ever been on a sailboat?”
She laughed and said, “No. What a funny question. Why do you
ask?”
“The ropes that bound him. Whoever did it knew some very
intricate rope patterns.”
“You think I tied him up?”
“I’m just trying to gather as much information as I can.
Nothing personal.”
She arched one of her well-defined eyebrows and tilted her
head to the side, trying to figure out what made him tick.
He stood and said, “No. You’re not under arrest, Ms.
Forshey. Just let me know if you plan to leave town.” He reached into his
jacket pocket and pulled out one of his cards.
She stood and he noticed how well she looked in a
knee-length pencil skirt. She was tall for a woman—probably five foot ten. He
shook her hand and told her, “I’m going to look for the gun.”
She answered him with a nod.
###
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