Category Archives: Murder Mystery

Trip On This: Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Nicotine helps me think!I couldn’t stand listening to that pussy one second longer blathering about how much he regretted hurting the girl, that he really thought he’d loved her. If he knew how many times I’ve heard that self-serving shit from men who need to rationalize screwing around on their wives, he’d shut his mouth before uttering one more word. It was all I could do not to punch him in the mouth when he bleated for perhaps the twentieth time that it wasn’t sordid, Ms. Wire, oh, no, it was true love. I make them call me Ms. Wire because that way, I’m not covered in their filth. It’s enough to make me swear off men the way these idiots act like tomcats in heat. I’m sure this girl was sooo different—that’s why he’s sending me to break into her house to retrieve something of value which might link him to her. Besides, if she was sooo different, he wouldn’t have dumped her, now would he? I had had half a mind to turn him down cold until he mentioned how much he was willing to pay. Twenty-thousand, flat. A cool ten-thou resides in the back pocket of my jeans in the form of a check, and the other ten thou will be mine after I deliver the goods. That’s ten months of rent money—which is nothing to sneeze at.

After leaving his office, I return to my studio in the Mission, after detouring at my bank, of course. I don’t even bother to think about the case until that check clears. Why waste the brain power if I don’t have to? This time, however, the check clears right away. Funny, what money can buy you. I forgot to mention there’s a five-thousand dollar bonus if I finish the job in three days. ‘I really need to ease my mind, Ms. Wire,’ he had said, earnestly pushing his glasses up his nose. I can’t imagine fucking a wet noodle like him, but to each her own. If someone was buying me diamond rings and shit, maybe I’d be willing to think of my country and spread my legs, too. Hell, I did it often enough in the old days. I light up an unfiltered and inhale deeply. I quit smoking two years ago, but allow myself the pleasure when I’m figuring out a job. I have a firm rule that once I’m on the job, I can’t drink until I finish, and I’m an ornery bitch if I don’t give in to one of my vices. Since my other fave is heroin, I figure smoking is the least harmful to my profession.

I’m not an ordinary thief, mind you, and I hate being called that. I don’t break into houses for the hell of it and bust shit up. I don’t carry a piece, and I don’t kill anybody. Killing is for losers—I saw enough of that while living on the streets. In fact, it was after I witnessed someone getting killed for a couple bucks that I began to rethink my lifestyle. As fate would have it, a hooker in the Tenderloin asked me to help her retrieve something from her pimp, and when I was able to do it successfully, she recommended me to a friend. Thus, a career was born, and I’ve been thanking Cocoa every since. She got sliced and diced a year back, and they still haven’t found the son-of-a-bitch who did her. It’s some john, of course, but no cop gives a good goddamn about some Tenderloin whore. It’s just me and the girls who mourn her, and that asshole pimp of hers, Johnny Dee, except his grief is only for the loss of a paycheck.
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Trip On This: Chapter One

Chapter One

Getting funky in The Mission!

“Ms. Trip, uh, Trip Wire?”  The man holds his hand out, an uncertain smile edging his lips.  It wavers even further when the slim, Asian woman stares hard at him but doesn’t take the proffered hand.  “Um, I’m Fenwick Harrington.  You may call me Fenwick.”  He leaves his hand hanging for a beat longer before letting it fall limply to his side.  He is a thin man though quite tall, and his clothes look as if he bought them off the bargain rack at Target.  His dead-white skin, badly-cut brown hair, and the nervous tic in his left eye do nothing to inspire confidence.  Only the Rolex on his left wrist hints at the wealth he is rumored to have.  He’s one of those nouveau riche who’d rather look like a street bum than flaunt his wealth.

“Won’t you, uh, please, sit down?”  Even though they are meeting at his office, he feels at a disadvantage.  Since his business with her is delicate as it always is, he thought it would put him one-up to make her meet him at his office, but that is not the case.  The Asian woman stares at him for a minute longer, her lithe body showing the benefits of religiously working out with her sculpted muscles on proud display beneath a black tank top and black jeans.  Her long black hair is pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, and there isn’t a trace of makeup on her round face.

“Ms. Wire, please.”  He ushers to the seat opposite his desk.  He can’t sit until she does—it’s now a matter of honor.  She glances around the office with the slightest sneer on her rather-full lips, then focuses on him, narrowing her eyes.  She has not spoken to him in the five minutes she’s been in his office, and he’s already sweating.  His eyes slide away from hers, unable to engage in this duel of wills.  Satisfied, she sits down, crossing her legs.  She is wearing black boots, of course—it’s only fitting.  She wears no jewelry except for a red thread around her neck with a gold pendant on it.  It has some kind of Asian character on it, but Fenwick Harrington has no idea what it represents.  One look into those flat eyes of hers, and he knows he’ll never ask.  Expelling a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, Fenwick Harrington sits as well.

“Well, Ms. Wire,” he says, trying out a smile on her.  Her face might as well be carved from granite for all the emotions she is showing.  “I’m sure you’re wondering—”

“How did you get my name?”  The voice is husky and deep, without a hint of accent.  There is a smokiness that sounds whiskey-induced.  The woman implacably watches Fenwick, following his every movement with her eyes.  Otherwise, she is completely still—something which unnerves Fenwick.
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Trip On This: Prologue

Ed. Note: I’m working on the announcement I mentioned in the previous post, and I’m still not ready to share exactly what I’m planning. However, it will involve a murder mystery of some kind, so to that end, I’ve decided to share an old mystery novel I wrote with you. Chapter by chapter, right here in this very space. I’m updating this old novel to make it more relevant, but I’m finding that it’s mostly fine as is. So, without further ado, here’s the prologue. 


My name is Trip, Trip Wire. Don’t say it because I’ve heard it three-thousand seven hundred and forty-two times before. Forty-three if you count the idiot who said it twice, but he didn’t have much else to say after I popped him one in his fat gut. My real name is Delilah as my adoptive parents who never went to college wanted to give this orphaned girl from China a ‘classy’ name. They scoured the Bible until they found a name they liked. Delilah, if you remember, is the broad who cut off Samson’s hair which was his strength. I don’t blame her at all as he was an idiot for letting her get that close to his hair, but men are dogs for a bit of pussy. 

If you happen to meet me, you may call me Del, though I prefer Trip, but don’t call me Live or Wired, not if you want to keep your testicles intact. Ms. Wire is fine, as well. Don’t stare at my tits, my ass, or talk to me as if I’m five years old. Don’t tell me how much you love Asian women or how Lucy Liu is so hot if you want to be able to walk away from me. What, me angry? So my therapist—mandated by the courts when I first was returned home after running away—told me before I stomped out of her office and never returned. I have every right to be angry growing up the only yellow face in Bumfuck, Iowa among the corn and the hicks who thought making the trip to Madison, Wisconsin was a big fucking deal. It wasn’t until I hightailed it to San Francisco on my sixteenth birthday that I realized I didn’t have to live in mediocrity or among the pale faces. Each time my parents came to fetch me home, I just ran away again until they finally gave up and let me be. I was seventeen.

Out here in San Francisco, I can breathe. I can walk on the streets and not be identified as the other—I am spared the second glance that always followed me around Bumfuck, Iowa. There, conversations would stop when I entered a place and whispers of ‘there goes that Wire child’ could distinctly be heard. Implied in their gossip was, ‘What was those Wires thinking of?’ The inevitable clucking of the tongue and shaking of the head accompanied each pronouncement. What my parents were fucking thinking of was they wanted a baby and couldn’t get afford a healthy white one from this country, so they scraped together the money to buy me from an orphanage in China where a girl’s life wasn’t worth the price of a chicken. All I know about my birth parents is that she was a whore and he was a Chinese American tourist who wanted to experience night life in China before returning to his real world.
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