Murder by the Dark of the Moon- Chapter 1

Murder by the Dark of the Moon

Chapter 1

When NYPD detective Mike Fox stepped off the plane at LAX, his old pal Tom Hart was waiting near the arrival gate.

It had been four years since the two gumshoes had put not only their heads together, but their knuckles and .38s as well, to crack what the New York tabloids dubbed The Skull Crowbar Murder.

Then Tom saw him—Mike coming down the ramp from the big silver bird, jacket slung over one shoulder, moving through the thin crowd with that same old gumshoe stride, like the whole damn night belonged to him.

They didn’t embrace. A firm handshake was more than enough. Hugs were for college boys and little old ladies, and neither of them qualified.

Tom gripped Mike’s hand hard, the old familiar pressure.

“Mike. Damn good to see you, pal.”

He jerked his head toward the exit.

“Car’s in the lot across the street. Figured you’d be hungry after four hours cooped up in that tin can. Got us a table at Taylor’s downtown. Nothing like a good T-bone and a stiff drink to put some blood back in your veins.”

Tom turned up the collar of his trench coat against the damp night air and started walking, shoes echoing across the wet pavement. Outside, city lights smeared across the rain-slick streets like cheap neon bleeding through glass.

They pushed through the heavy oak doors of Taylor’s Tavern just as the rain picked up outside.

The place had grown from a neighborhood bar into a proper steakhouse without losing its edge—dim burgundy leather booths, dark wood, exposed brick, and low-hanging lights that barely reached the corners. The kind of joint where every conversation stayed confidential and the waiters knew better than to linger.

A haze of cigarette smoke hung near the ceiling like morning fog over the river. The low murmur of deals being cut and steaks sizzling on the grill mixed with the clink of heavy glassware. Martinis and strong coffee were moving fast tonight.

Tom slid into a booth along the back wall, the leather creaking beneath him.

“This is more like it,” he said, shaking rain from his hat. “Best T-bones in town, and nobody asks questions.”

He caught the waitress’s eye and raised two fingers.

“Two martinis, dry. And tell the kitchen we’re hungry enough to do some damage.”

Mike settled into the deep burgundy booth and let the room wash over him. It hit like a right cross to the jaw—he was a long way from Brooklyn. No rattle of elevated trains. No smell of garlic and tomato sauce drifting from apartment windows. Just dark wood, brick walls the color of dried blood, and the low amber glow of lamps built to keep secrets.

The waitress moved through the haze like she’d been waiting for her close-up. Pretty Irish face, red hair pinned up just enough to show the curve of her neck, and the hungry hopeful eyes of every would-be starlet who’d ever traded a diner shift for a studio screen test.

She set two ice-cold martinis on the table and handed them menus.

“Evening, gentlemen. Tonight we’ve got the ribeye special, thick cut, charbroiled with our house béarnaise, and the porterhouse for two with sautéed mushrooms and onions. I’ll give you a few minutes. I’ll swing back with your second round before you even miss the first. You two look like you could murder those martinis before deciding between mashed or fries.”

Tom looked at her over the top of his reading glasses, slow and appreciative.

“Sounds good, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and smooth. “We’ll be ready when you get back.”

She flashed a quick practiced smile and turned away. Tom watched her weave through the dim light for a beat, then glanced across the table at Mike, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Mike ran a thumb down the menu, eyes scanning the typed card beneath the low light.

“Porterhouse special for two sounds right,” he said, snapping the menu shut. “Get the order in. I’m gonna step up front and call Rosalie. Let her know I didn’t fall out of the sky somewhere over the Rockies.”

Tom gave a dry chuckle.

“Go ahead, pal. I was married once. Only difference is my wife would’ve been praying the plane hit the side of a mountain outside Denver.”

Mike forced a laugh that didn’t quite land, slid out of the booth, and headed toward the phone booth near the front door.

By the time he returned, the order had been placed and the second round of martinis had arrived. He looked looser in the shoulders now, the tight lines around his eyes softened. Hearing his wife’s voice had done its job.

Tom lifted his glass and took a slow sip. Ice-cold. Bone dry. Just the way it ought to be.

He leaned in slightly, voice low beneath the murmur of the steakhouse.

“So… you gonna tell me what drags a Brooklyn dick all the way out to our sunny little corner of hell?” He gave a half-smile. “Or is this one of those hush-hush jobs I’m supposed to figure out between the salad and the steak?”

“Nah, nothing sexy,” Mike said, leaning over his martini. “Straight extradition. We got a real piece of work back in New York. Serial killer’s been breaking into single-family homes for three years, always on a new moon. Bastard staked the places out, knew exactly which ones had married couples and no kids. Good with locks. He’d slip in through a back door or window, wake ’em up with a .22 in their faces.

“Made the wife zip-tie the husband, raped her right in front of him, then had her stuff a pillowcase with every dime and piece of jewelry in the house. Finished it with a bullet behind each ear.”

Mike paused as the waitress returned carrying the porterhouse, the heavy platter still sizzling.

Neither man looked at her.

She’d worked Taylor’s long enough to know when cops were talking business. She set the food down quick and silent, then disappeared back toward the kitchen without a word.

Tom cut into his steak, juices running dark across the plate.

“I read about that one in the Times,” he grunted. “Full-blown psycho.”

“Get this,” Mike continued, spearing a piece of meat with his fork. “Couple of uniforms out here on Wilshire pull him over for running a red light. Spot the .22 strapped to his ankle. They bring him in, run the gun through ballistics. Turns out the tech’s got an old war buddy on the NYPD feeding him details on the case. Guy puts two and two together, makes the call, and New York says bring him home.

“That’s why I’m out here eating porterhouse with you instead of chasing my tail in Brooklyn.”

“When are you taking him back?” Tom asked.

“First flight tomorrow morning.” Mike swirled the last of his martini. “I chased that animal for over a year after he hit a place on Bay Parkway. Thought I had him a couple times. Then two lucky uniforms on Wilshire nail him three thousand miles away.”

Tom gave a short grunt.

“So this is it, huh? At least we got a decent steak out of it. Back in Brooklyn we worked two solid weeks before we cracked the Crowbar Murder.”

Mike stared into his glass.

“Yeah… We never did pin down who stuck that switchblade between Ann Grillo’s ribs.” He looked up slowly. “You wouldn’t want to tell me who did it, would you, Tom?”

Tom leaned back, eyes flat.

“Why ruin a good dinner dragging up old bones? I didn’t look too hard. Some skeletons belong in the closet.”

Mike nodded slowly.

“Fair enough. It’s getting late and I’m getting drunk. Take me to the hotel. We roll early tomorrow, so we’ll say our goodbyes there.”

They cleaned their plates and ordered one last martini for the road. When the check came, they fought over it the way old cops do. Mike won, slapping it onto his NYPD expense account with a satisfied smirk.

Tom’s Buick slid to a stop in front of the Hotel Normandie, a couple blocks from Wilshire Division. The old Renaissance pile still looked respectable at night, even if the edges were beginning to fray.

“Well, thanks for dinner and the drinks, pal,” Tom said, gripping the door handle. “Can’t believe this is it.”

“Part of the job. Thanks for playing chauffeur.”

“Just returning the favor. You ever need anything on the other coast, you call.”

They shook hands, firm and final.

Mike grabbed his bag from the back seat and stepped into the damp night air. Tom watched him until the detective disappeared through the hotel’s heavy glass doors.

So that was that.

Tom shook his head, lit a fresh cigarette, and pulled away from the curb. The neon of Wilshire blurred across the windshield as he drove home through the sleeping city.