The Twisted Sword

Some of the people who know me might expect that if I wrote a novel titled The Twisted Sword, it would be a high fantasy, akin to the works of J.R.R. Tolkien (or, if I were in a murderous mood, George R.R. Martin). Instead, it’s a cheesy Private Investigator novel. I am now over 50,000 words into this project, and if I can maintain a pace of over 500 words a day for the rest of the year (and a few days into the next), I will complete a first draft of about 73,000 words by January 10th.

Below is Chapter Four, which takes place after one major incident and describes another. The first-person narrative is a classic of hard-boiled detective fiction, but it does force certain things to take place ‘off camera’ as it were. This is an early draft. It is probably full of wild inaccuracies, some of which I will retain if I feel they serve the story I want to tell. It’s fiction, people, lighten up.

Here is a description for the cover:

Private investigator Martin Cutter is reluctant to help his ex, Grace Jordan, find the man who sold her a counterfeit artifact for billionaire Harold Klassman’s private collection. But when he discovers the unscrupulous art broker grotesquely murdered, he gets drawn into a power struggle between the billionaire, a local mobster, and a mysterious suspect that he can never quite identify, all the while navigating the even more treacherous waters of his relationship with Grace. Can he keep the interested parties at bay long enough to investigate the murder? Will his desire to protect Grace reignite the passion between them? And can he uncover the identity of the person willing to kill to possess The Twisted Sword?

Chapter Four

They say there are no atheists in foxholes, but if I were in one, I would never utter a single prayer. For Grace, on the other hand, infuriating, stubborn, saber-tongued Grace, I might petition the invisible man in the sky most fervently, asking him to let me get there in time to protect her. And so it came to pass that despite breaking every speed limit between the warehouse and the tower, not a single law enforcement officer in North Carolina or Virginia pulled me over. And if I were to find Grace still alive, I might gladly give all due credit to God for that.

There were five police cars parked around the tower when I arrived at Klassman Plaza, their red and blue lights dancing across the glass and stone of the surrounding buildings. The plaza was a sprawling stone-paved area planted with half a dozen white-flowering crepe myrtle trees and flowerbeds full of bright annuals. Usually, the floodlights were dimmed, giving the plaza a softly lit twilight quality. Tonight, every light was turned on and turned up, flooding the area with harsh, bright light. In the center of the plaza was an open fountain with fifteen jets that usually shot streams of water into the air, but tonight they were shut off, blocked by a patrol car. There were also a couple of unmarked vehicles on the plaza, suggesting that, in addition to uniformed officers, higher-ranking personnel were also on site. I drove up to one of the police barricades and got out of my car. “Sir, you cannot park there,” a burly police officer wearing his mirrored sunglasses at night told me. “Please get back in your vehicle.”

“What’s going on here?” I asked, knowing the officer wouldn’t tell me.

“Please, sir, get back in your car.” He was politer than many of the cops I had met.

“Is Danielle Moreno on site?” I asked.

“Please, sir, this is an active crime scene. If you don’t leave, I will be forced to detain you.”

“Call detective Moreno,” I requested. “Tell her that Martin Cutter is here.” He pulled down his shades and looked at me as if I had asked him to ‘expletive deleted’ his sister. Still, he turned away, pressed the button on his radio’s shoulder mic, and had a conversation that I couldn’t hear. He turned back to me after a few minutes.

“Go see Officer Yates at the building entrance,” he pointed toward the glass entrance doors. “She’ll escort you to 14.” So, it was on 14. I walked swiftly toward the entrance.

“Officer Yates?” I asked, as I approached. She looked formidable, like that Colonial Marine chick from Aliens.

“Yes, Mr. Cutter,” she replied politely. “Please follow me.” We moved through the lobby and around to the elevators. Yates selected the same elevator and entered the same code I had used earlier that day. The doors opened on 14, and I stepped out.

The first thing I saw was the body. It was lying halfway behind the security desk, wearing the dark blue uniform of a KP security guard. I could only see part of him, but I could see the single bullet hole in his forehead. This was the guy I had earlier described as a gorilla. Yeah, sometimes I regret the self-deluded cleverness of my internal narrative. A crime scene tech was hovering over him, a photographic vulture taking pictures.

I broadened my focus to the rest of the room and finally saw what I wanted to see. Grace. Alive, if not so well. Thank God. She was seated on an office chair across from the security desk, an EMT wrapping an elastic bandage around her right wrist. Her face was a ruin of tears and makeup, but I had never been as happy to see her.

I started toward Grace when Danielle Moreno came striding toward me, the confidence of her gait telegraphing that this was her crime scene, and I was just a visitor. She was wearing a tan pantsuit, a brown shirt, and brown flat shoes. She was still almost six feet tall. Her long chestnut hair was tied in a simple, practical ponytail. A gold badge was clipped to her belt. My relationship with Dani was complicated. At various times, we had been coworkers, lovers, and friends. There was a brief time when she hated me, but that was mostly my fault. At least that’s what she says. We met while working together at one of the local NCIS offices and had both left after ‘The Incident.’ She went legit and joined the Port Dominion Police Force. I went the private route and ended up taking pornographic pictures of indiscreet morons. Since she didn’t want to kill me (anymore), I was not afraid of her, but certainly would have been if she ever did. “What happened here, Dani?” I asked her.

“Why don’t you tell me?” she said. “You’re the one who called about possible armed intruders at Klassman Plaza before they even arrived.” I gave her a brief rundown of my day, her calm and controlled expression breaking for a moment when I described Corey Benjamin's final fate. “Dios Mio, Marty, what have you gotten yourself into?”

“That’s the million-dollar question,” I said. “What happened here?”

“Based on the preliminaries, two or more masked gunmen entered through the emergency exit on the southwest corner of the building, climbed 14 floors, and somehow breached a security door to gain access to this level. The security guard, Anthony Thomson, stood up to challenge the men and was shot point-blank in the head with a nine-millimeter handgun. Grace Jordan had entered from another part of the floor and was knocked down by one of the gunmen. They started searching the floor, but when they did not find the object they were looking for, they asked Ms. Jordan where ‘The Sword’ was. She told them it was in the large safe in her office. This was likely when they noticed the swarm of police cars converging on this location. Whoever they are, they did not want to get caught in a siege and abandoned the item in question, going back out the way they came in.”

“They didn’t shoot Grace,” I stated the obvious.

“They probably shot the guard because they thought he was a direct threat. They didn’t have the manpower to conduct the search and keep him contained. Grace was down and injured, and let’s face it, at five foot two and about 115 pounds, she was never much of a threat.”

“You’ve never been in a fight with her,” I said.

“In any case, she was lucky; the guard was not. The item is still in the safe. Is it that valuable?”

“If it were genuine, it would be worth between 20 and 25 thousand,” I regurgitated some of the research I had done earlier. “The counterfeit would be worth considerably less.”

“So why did these guys come in here looking for it?” she asked, “and why did they leave a genuine Van Gogh and Picasso? Seems like a low-value item for the likes of Harold Klassman.”

“It’s still a pretty cool artifact,” I said. “A genuine Viking sword. Sure, it was a fake, even in its own time, but an actual Viking probably used it. I guess for someone with an interest in Nordic history or culture, it might have a greater meaning than its monetary value. But it doesn’t seem like something someone would kill over. Have you looked at any of the security camera footage yet?”

“Well, that’s another problem entirely,” she said. “This building is apparently one of the most secure in the state. Aside from the overpriced art collection, it contains several billion dollars’ worth of proprietary data on drug development and other pharmaceutical protocols. Yet somehow, the security system failed across the board. Alarms didn’t sound. Cameras went dark. Security doors were breached. I’m wondering whether or not it was an inside job.”

“I don’t know how,” I said. “If they had known the sword was here, why did they wait until after they caught up to Benjamin to steal it? I mean, I erred on the side of caution by calling you and the PDPD, but the timing is not right.”

“There are a lot of questions that still need to be answered,” she agreed. “I don’t need to remind you that this is a police matter now, do I, Marty? I’m sure that we will want to talk with you further, but this is my investigation.”

“C’mon, Dani,” I said. “We’ve shared investigations before. I know how to stay out of your way.”

“I’ve got a dead body in a building owned by the wealthiest man in the state. I’ve got what might potentially be a related murder in another state, a murder that is going to attract a shit ton of attention just due to the nature of the crime. I don’t need an amateur running around behind the scenes talking to suspects before I get to them, contaminating possible crime scenes, or otherwise interfering with my investigation.” Amateur? I thought. Who the ‘expletive deleted’ are you calling an amateur? I decided to be more diplomatic with my actual response.

“Sure, Dani,” I said, mentally crossing my fingers. “It’s your investigation. I won’t interfere.”

“Marty,” Grace called quietly from across the room. The EMT had finished his work. Dani walked over with me.

“Hi, Grace,” I said. As soon as I was close to her, she rolled her chair closer to me and wrapped her arms around my waist. “How are you?” I asked, placing my arms around her shoulders. She didn’t answer. “How is she?” I asked the EMT.

“She has a sprained wrist,” the EMT reported. “And she is suffering from emotional shock. You might want to take her to the ER for an X-ray or to her doctor tomorrow. I have these,” he handed me an orange drug bottle with a couple of pills in it, “for the swelling. And these,” a second bottle, “for the pain. They should get her through the night.”

“Do you have a wipe?” Dani asked the EMT. He provided her with a packet, which she tore open. “Come here, sweetie,” she pulled Grace away from me and started to wipe her face. “Let’s clean all this crap off.”

“Are you done with her?” I asked.

“We have her initial statement,” Dani started. “I may want to talk to her again. And even though the suspects were wearing masks, I might want her to sit down with one of our forensic artists to see if she can provide any identifying details. But I don’t think we need any more from her tonight.”

“You want me to take you home, Grace?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Same address?”

“No,” she looked up at me. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“I can take you somewhere else. Is there a friend you can stay with?”

“No,” she began to cry. “Take me home.”

“Some detective,” Dani muttered. “Get a clue, bright boy.” Oh, she was talking about my home.

“Okay, I’ll take you home,” I said, touching Grace’s shoulder. “I won’t leave you alone.”