A Valentine to Die For by Aver Rigsly
Book 1 in the Noir Nights series
General Release Date: 8th February 2022
Word Count: 41,450
Book Length: SHORT NOVEL
Pages: 171
Genres:
CRIME,CRIME AND MYSTERY,EROTIC ROMANCE,GAY,GLBTQI,HISTORICAL,VALENTINES
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Book Description
Having a secret admirer can be deadly.
Ricky Morris, private investigator on New York’s elite Upper East Side, has forged a shady yet profitable life as a gumshoe for wealthy Manhattanites after burning the bridge to his law enforcement past. When women in the city are targeted by a sweet-toothed murderer in the week leading up to Valentine’s Day, the last thing Ricky expects is to be hired by the younger brother of the man who ruined his life.
Timothy Ward, young, fresh patrolman for the N.Y.P.D. who never thought he’d have to step outside the law, finds himself in desperate need of Ricky’s help when he fears his brother, James Ward, the Deputy Chief, could be behind the killing spree.
With Valentine’s Day fast approaching, both men will have to work in the shadows, putting their careers and lives on the line to get to the bottom of the murderer’s sickly sweet and cruel plans. That is, if the burning heat of undeniable—and very forbidden—lust between them doesn’t consume them in the flames of reckless desire first…
Reader advisory: This book contains period-typical attitudes including slurs. There are mentions of on-page gunplay, and a slow-burn between the main characters over the course of the series.
“Have a good evening, Mrs. Campbell. I promise to look into that missing portrait for you first thing tomorrow morning.”
Ricky inched behind old Mrs. Campbell, who was one of his regular clients. The thing was, she came every Monday at five-thirty p.m. like clockwork, and every week she tried to hire Ricky for the same thing. Mrs. Campbell was convinced that three men had broken into her home on Park Avenue and stolen the portrait of her mother that she had kept above her fireplace for thirty-six years. She claimed that at half-past midnight she saw the crooks, all no taller than three feet supposedly, creep through her parlor, scale the rough brick fireplace and make off with the painting out through the front door.
Now Ricky wouldn’t be surprised if her mother’s portrait had gone missing, but it was most likely one of her no-good hoodlum sons who’d nicked it in the middle of the night to make some extra clams in a pinch. Mrs. Campbell had a hard time remembering much of anything anymore, even losing her train of thought when she came by to report her usual theft, which Ricky could almost recite by heart now.
“Bless your heart, Richard,” said Mrs. Campbell, shuffling through Ricky’s foyer where his secretary’s desk sat planted by the front door. Elizabeth Cook, Liz to most, smiled and said her usual goodbye to Mrs. Campbell.
“Good night to you, too, Miss Elizabeth. Now when do I need to bring in payment, Richard?”
“Like I said, ma’am. As soon as I find your mother’s portrait for you, then we’ll talk cash. Although I’m sure me and Liz here would be plenty happy with some of your famous cheesecake that we’ve heard so much about.” Ricky opened the door and held it for her.
“Oh! I will certainly add the ingredients to my shopping list. It takes four whole hours to bake it properly, you know.”
“We can’t wait to try it. Take care, Mrs. Campbell.”
“You too, dears.”
She shuffled down the few steps and out of the door, onto the sidewalk. Liz let out a long sigh of relief. Her bushy blonde hair was starting to fall from her neatly pinned hairdo. It was hard to tame all that hair into place, it seemed, but it gave her a sort of strange, exhausted beauty that was real, unlike the department-store models and the glitzy dames in the movies.
Liz was an honest, down-to-earth person, and if Ricky were into that sort of thing, he would have found her extremely attractive. Probably would have flirted with her relentlessly in high school if they had known each other back then. It would have driven her bonkers, but that would have only made him do it more.
“That was your last appointment for today,” she said.
“It was a very profitable day, Liz. You should treat yourself to something nice tonight.”
Ricky put a check with her name on it in front of her with a flourish of his wrist. She picked it up and inspected the amount, then smiled and pulled her handbag out of the bottom drawer of her desk to tuck it carefully inside.
“You know very well that I’m going to squirrel this away.”
“Yeah, you never do anything fun with the dough we make. Such a party-pooper.”
“Some of us don’t quite feel like drinking our savings away.”
“It’s a shame, though. I could use a drinking buddy.”
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to head out now,” she said, already cleaning up the top of her desk. She always left it pristine before she left for the night. “I need to go home and feed Leo before my next shift.”
Liz had another job—a night shift at Darling Confectionaries—which she worked six nights a week. Ricky paid her as well as he could since Liz was probably the closest person to a friend he had, but Liz took pride in her independence and worked harder than most men he knew so she could have everything she wanted. It wasn’t like she was looking for a husband any time soon.
Leo, her tabby cat, was the only man Liz kept around. Ricky wasn’t blind to the lady friends Liz saw regularly at a club down in Hell’s Kitchen. He knew about the company she preferred, and she knew about his own. Perhaps that was one of the reasons they got along so well.
“It has to be a zoo over there at the factory,” Ricky said. “With what? Five days until Valentine’s? I do not envy you.”
“Yeah, we’re busy as bees of course, but the extra pay is wonderful.” She threw on her dark green winter coat, buttoning it up tight, and pulled out a fine pair of tailored gloves from the pockets which she put on her dainty hands. Everything about her was professional. One of them had to have a little professionalism around here, and Liz had her ducks in a row. He was grateful to have her around.
“Well, have a good night, and say hi to Leo for me,” he said, following her out his front door onto the landing.
“Will do. And try not to drink too much tonight, Ricky.”
“No promises.”
She laughed but rolled her eyes. “Of course, I should know better.”
“Night, Liz.”
“Goodnight.”
She went down the stairwell, through the front door—which sent a powerful blast of freezing wind to swirl up to the landing—and like that, she was gone.
He turned around and went back inside. His ‘office’ was just the main parlor of the apartment, redesigned for seeing clients. His living quarters were tucked farther back, including a kitchen he rarely touched, his bedroom—which included a full bath—and a walk-in pantry that he’d changed completely into his own private darkroom.
He knew he had it nice, scoring a place this swanky in the Upper East Side, but the gumshoe business wasn’t so bad if a person knew what they were doing—or knew how to squeeze the right people. He made way more money now than he ever had on the force.
He walked over to his big oak desk, off to the right near the bay window facing the street. A pair of cars rolled by, lazy-like in the dark, lonely night. The sun had set a while ago, and the streetlamps outside lit up the snowbanks shoveled up high on the curb. It didn’t look like it was going to snow, not tonight, but he wouldn’t be surprised if there were a couple of flurry showers tomorrow. It had been steadily snowing the past two weeks.
He reached down to the small liquor cabinet under the right side of his desk and pulled out the bottle of Schenley’s London Dry gin he kept there. It still had about a quarter left.
A loud knock on his door rattled out, which surprised him enough he nearly dropped the bottle. He hadn’t heard Liz come back up the stairs.
“Did I forget to sign the check?” he called out. It wouldn’t be the first time, but he wasn’t deep enough in the hooch. For now.
He opened the door and was shocked to see that it wasn’t Liz at all.
“Oh.”
“Pardon me, sir, but I’m looking for Mr. Richard Morris.”
It was a young man, who looked to be a good few years younger than Ricky was himself. The guy was bundled up in a long navy-blue jacket with a puffy mustard-colored knitted scarf wrapped around his neck. He wore a matching pair of mittens to combat the frigid February weather which had turned the tip of his nose and ears a furious shade of bright pink.
“Who’s asking?”
“My name is Timothy,” he said. He pulled his mittens off and extended a hand. “I was told that I could find Private Investigator Richard Morris here.”
Ricky shook his hand, which was freezing cold despite his mittens. “I’m Ricky Morris, but I’m afraid my office is already closed for the evening.”
“Oh, but I would only take a few minutes of your time, sir. There’s something very important I’m looking into, and I could really use someone with talent like yours, Mr. Morris.”
“I’d be happy to help you, but not tonight,” he said, beginning to close the door. “You’ll have to make an appointment with my secretary in the morning, sorry.”
“Wait!” Timothy cried. He stuck out a hand and stopped Ricky from shutting the door in his face. “Please. Someone else will probably be dead by then.”
“What did you say?”
“I mean, I think someone is going to commit murder tonight.” His face was pale, his striking green eyes looked frightened, and he had that desperate look on his face that Ricky usually saw on suspicious housewives. Dramatics aside, the guy did look terrified of something.
“If you think that, then shouldn’t you go to the cops instead?”
“Please, just let me have a few minutes to explain. I’ll even pay you for your time, if that’s what you want.”
The guy looked spooked, and really, what the hell else did Ricky have planned for the night? Maybe he’d make a little extra dough today after all.
“All right, I’ll listen to whatever you want. Come inside. Get yourself warmed up at least.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much, Mr. Morris.”
“Just call me Ricky.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Take a seat,” he offered, gesturing over to the lone chair in front of his desk.
“Sure.” Timothy unbuttoned his jacket, shrugging it off along with his huge scarf. He placed them over the back of the chair and out of the corner of his eye Ricky caught the shiver that ran through his thin frame.
Timothy took a seat, and though he came across a bit stiff the way he sat ramrod straight, Ricky was intrigued by the way he looked. He wore a cozy blue sweater vest over a starched white dress shirt and thin black tie. His slacks were pressed and neatly tailored to show off his lean waist, which Ricky let himself ogle at a bit too long perhaps. Hell, even his dress shoes were polished and pristine despite the salted streets.
What drew Ricky’s attention most of all was the discreet, yet not invisible, hearing aid he spied behind Timothy’s left ear. It was one of those newer kinds, hardly noticeable if a person had longer hair, but Timothy’s dark brown hair was trimmed neatly short, parted on his right side without a single hair out of place.
“I was just about to have a drink. Would you care to join me?”
“Oh,” Timothy said. He cast a wary glance over the booze. “Well, yes, please. That is very nice of you.”
“It’s the least I can do. You look like the wind dragged you all the way over here.” He took two glasses out of his liquor cabinet and poured hefty glugs. Fuck it. He was technically off the clock.
“Yeah, it was a bit of a walk,” Timothy agreed, “but it’s much warmer in here.”
“Good. Take this.”
Ricky passed over the glass, and Timothy took it with a quiet thanks. He sipped the gin and pulled a quick face at the taste, his cute thin nose pinching. He gave a tiny cough into his fist and tried to play it off by raising one perfectly trimmed dark eyebrow at Ricky.
“You always keep this kind of liquor on hand for your clients?”
“Pretty strong, huh?” he replied with a smirk. Ricky would bet twenty bucks that if Timothy drank that whole glass, his cheeks would be a matching shade of pink to his ears and nose. That’d be a sight to see. Maybe Ricky could get the kid calmed down, doing his usual schtick of reassuring promises and hopeful offers, then perhaps convince him to stay a while for a second drink.
After all, Ricky had a type, and he wasn’t shy about it. He had never been lucky enough to have such a cute little dish like this young Timothy walk into his office, and tonight would be as good as any to see how far his luck could go.
“Now,” Ricky said. “What in the world brought you over here tonight? What couldn’t wait till tomorrow?”
“It’s a bit of a story, and I don’t know if you’ll believe me or not, but it’s regarding the two dead women the police found yesterday and this morning.”
“What women?”
“You may not have heard. I saw the paper this morning, and they only briefly mentioned the first woman’s death. It was poisoning.”
“Poisoning? Like, an accident.”
“No, not an accident. She had been given a gift by someone unknown to her, and when she ingested it, it caused an immediate reaction that shut down her nervous system and killed her.”
Ricky took a sip of his gin. “And how in the hell do you know this?”
Timothy shifted in his seat, glancing down at his drink in his hands before looking back at Ricky.
“I’m a part of the New York Police Department. I read the report today after my shift.”
“You’re an officer?”
“Yes…”
“Then what the hell are you doing here?” This was a brand-new sort of crazy Ricky had never seen before. “And what the hell does that woman’s death have to do with anything?”
“That’s the thing,” Timothy said, shaking his head. “There was a second woman found dead in her apartment this morning. She had an identical gift—a box of Valentine’s chocolates—from an anonymous gifter, and she died from poisoning as well. Almost identically to the woman from yesterday. They were both in their early thirties, single, living alone…”
“So, what? You think it could be a serial killer?”
Timothy took another swig of his gin, almost finishing half of it off in one gulp. “Not only do I think it’s a serial killer, but I’m worried it could be my brother.”
“Your brother?”
“Yes. James Ward.”
Ricky had been mid-sip and almost spat out his gin. He lowered his glass. “Your brother is James Ward.”
“Yes.”
“Deputy Chief of Manhattan North Detective Bureau James Ward.”
“Yes…”
“And you’re Timothy Ward.”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Then I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
“What?” Timothy placed his glass on Ricky’s desk and shifted closer in his seat. “Why not?”
“Do you even know who you’re fucking talking to?” Ricky asked. He watched Timothy twitch in his seat, like Ricky had slapped him instead of asking a question.
“Um, I know that you used to work alongside James. Before I even joined the academy.”
“Oh yeah, I worked with James all right. And it was James who fired me and fucking ruined my entire life. Regardless of that important detail, there is no way that you’d be sitting there asking me for help if you knew why. Do you know why I was kicked from the force?” he asked.
Any cordial politeness he had initially felt had dried up in an instant. He regretted even opening the door for this guy, never mind inviting him into his home.
Timothy had a look of panic on his face, like he expected Ricky to stand and throw a knuckle sandwich across the desk, which wasn’t far off from how Ricky was starting to feel.
“I…I was told that you resigned a few years before I joined.”
“Resigned? Ha! That’s a fucking laugh. They asked me to respectfully resign, but they might have well put a gun at the back of my head while they did it. After all, I am just a goddamn fairy. A punk? What’s your favorite slur? Faggot?”
“I don’t—”
“You got the goddamn picture yet? I know what they say about me down at the precinct. I know what James has been fucking spreading around! He dragged my name through the mud and back, for Christ’s sake!”
His volume was raising, and he couldn’t even blame the burst of anger surging through his veins on the few sips of gin, yet he couldn’t get past the fucking nerve of this guy. At least Ricky had apparently gotten his point across to the kid after that last outburst, albeit a bit bluntly.
Yet, where the hell did he get off thinking he could walk into Ricky’s home and beg for help when his whole department had made Ricky into the biggest joke around? Ricky was now a freak, a borderline criminal, and it was James’ fucking fault.
Ricky finally did stand, towering over Timothy, who sat meekly in the chair, shocked wordless.
“Just get the fuck outta here,” Ricky said. He took a gulp of gin straight from the bottle. “I don’t care about any murders. It’s the police’s responsibility, not mine, and you guys can go fuck yourselves. Especially James.”
“But they won’t take me seriously,” Timothy replied. “I know if I tell them what I’m worried about, they’ll laugh me off.”
“Welcome to the goddamn club, pal.”
Timothy sat as still as a statue, and when he did talk, it was quiet and almost surprised the anger right out of Ricky.
“I don’t think that you’re a joke. I need your help and I don’t care about…” He cleared his throat and wrung his hands in his lap. “About why they made you leave. It doesn’t bother me.”
Ricky snorted and shook his head. He took another swig from the bottle, put his hands on his hips and walked over to his front door.
“Save your breath. You can take whatever problem you walked in with and go find help somewhere else, buddy. I’m booked solid. Goodnight.”
He opened the door and held it, watching as Timothy reluctantly got up and put his jacket back on. It was a shame. In only a minute, Ricky had gone from liking the kid to being insulted that he was here. He would never forgive James Ward, ever, and there was no way he’d get involved with the police and a case. Those days were on the other side of a burned bridge.
“Thank you for your time,” Timothy said, clipped and stiff. He gave Ricky a disappointed look as he walked past him, but Ricky let it roll off his shoulders.
“Goodnight, Mr. Ward,” he spat.
“Goodnight, Mr. Morris.”
He closed the door to the landing, not bothering to watch Timothy leave down the stairs and out through the front door. Good riddance. He had a date with the rest of that gin, then maybe a sirloin steak from the diner down the block after he broke into a second bottle. He’d had a successful day after all, and he was doing fine on his own, thanks very fucking much for asking.
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Aver Rigsly
Aver Rigsly was born and raised in the Boston, Massachusetts area and spends her days working at a travel agency in Quincy. Some of her favourite places to visit are Washington D.C., Bangor, Maine, and most of all New York City. When she isn’t working a trip or writing LGBTQA+ romance obsessively, she spends her free time relaxing with knitting, needlepoint, video games, or marathoning horror movies with the family.
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