When the bodies of 3 male escorts show up on the banks of the Mississippi River, the St. Louis LGBTQ community grows restless while searching for a missing bartender. The police have been slow to respond, and a local reporter suspects a serial killer might be stalking the cityâs streets.
Unable to resist putting herself in front of a story as it unfolds, Colette Birzhan races to the Midwest to report on the case. Sheâs intelligent, provocative, and a proud trans woman. Sheâs also an award-winning investigative journalist for the New York City Tribune.
Having escaped the clutches of a small town years ago to become her true self, Colette yearns to tell the stories of under-represented people like herself. She relies on the unheard, and often ignored, voices of the city to lead her one step closer to solving the case. When she teams up with a rookie hustler, the trail leads them to a quiet suburb outside St. Louis called Scenic Hills.
Swimming pools, backyard barbecues, children riding bikes along neighborhood streets, Scenic Hills is a place where people go to escape the fast and dangerous pace of city life.
And itâs where a killer could be hiding.
When the bodies of 3 male escorts show up on the banks of the Mississippi River, the St. Louis LGBTQ community grows restless while searching for a missing bartender. The police have been slow to respond, and a local reporter suspects a serial killer might be stalking the cityâs streets.
Unable to resist putting herself in front of a story as it unfolds, Colette Birzhan races to the Midwest to report on the case. Sheâs intelligent, provocative, and a proud trans woman. Sheâs also an award-winning investigative journalist for the New York City Tribune.
Having escaped the clutches of a small town years ago to become her true self, Colette yearns to tell the stories of under-represented people like herself. She relies on the unheard, and often ignored, voices of the city to lead her one step closer to solving the case. When she teams up with a rookie hustler, the trail leads them to a quiet suburb outside St. Louis called Scenic Hills.
Swimming pools, backyard barbecues, children riding bikes along neighborhood streets, Scenic Hills is a place where people go to escape the fast and dangerous pace of city life.
And itâs where a killer could be hiding.
It was a Sunday morning in Chelsea. Sometime during the night, in an upstairs bedroom window overlooking West 24th Street, a plump yellow tabby cat named Mr. Bojangles opened a slit between the curtains so it could peer outside. A feral calico perched on the steps each night to look up at the much more privileged cat sitting behind the window.
Now, both cats were gone from their evening perches. A tiny bolt of sunlight had found its way through the opening between the curtains, causing the person asleep in the nearby bed to wake.
The scent of black coffee lingered in the brownstone. It meant Jackie Mezzo was awake too. Colette Birzhan slept in on Sundays, especially if she and Jackie had spent all night in the East Village. If Jackie had a show, they sometimes ended up in Hellâs Kitchen.
Last night had been differentâa girlsâ night at home with microwave popcorn and a bottle of red wine. Maybe two bottles. Jackie had already cleared the evidence off the coffee table. Movie night was a tradition they held themselves to at least once a month.
Last night, it was the latest Jason Momoa movie. Jackie and Colette were both obsessed with the Hawaiian hunk. Colette had a weakness for brown-skinned men with tattoos and long hair. For Jackie, it was the eyes, the hair, the arms, the butt, and the muscles. Jackie wasnât too picky with men.
From the bed, Colette rolled over to check her cell phone. No missed calls. No missed texts. It was only 8 a.m. She pulled herself from the oasis of sheets and blankets, put on some socks, and followed the aroma of fresh java to the kitchen.
âMorning! Iâm sorry. Did I wake you?â Jackie asked, sitting at the table in front of her laptop.
âNo, but what are you doing up?â It was a rhetorical question. Jackie was always the first one up.
âIt was an early night. I slept like a baby. You?â
âMe too. The wine helped.â
âAlways does,â Jackie said, grasping her favorite hot pink âTits Upâ coffee mug in both hands. She held it up in front of her mouth to inhale the earthy aroma. âCreamerâs in the fridge.â
Jackie was picky when it came to coffee: Strong. Black. Freshly ground. No cream. No sugar. Colette, on the other hand, added enough sweetener and flavored creamer that Jackie joked and said she had turned it into hot cocoa.
âWhat time was it when we went to bed?â
âJust after midnight, I think.â
If theyâd gone out instead, it would have been 3 or 4 a.m. before they got home.
Colette poured and flavored her coffee. She couldnât remember the last time sheâd been awake before noon on a Sunday.
âWe should do brunch today,â she said.
âOh, sweetie, I always do brunch. You should join me.â
Jackie rarely missed eggs benedict and endless mimosas at The Elmo if she wasnât working. Sometimes she performed in the drag brunch show at Lips.
âWhatâs that?â Colette asked, nodding at Jackieâs laptop screen.
âJust reading this morningâs Dispatch.â
The Post-Dispatch was the largest St. Louis daily newspaper in circulation. Jackie had grown up in St. Louis. She was Paxton Carter back then. Those closest to him at the time called him Pax. Jackie still was Paxton Carterâlegally, anywayâbut everyone in New York referred to him strictly by his stage persona. It didnât matter if he was in or out of drag; he would always be Jackie. He wasnât hung up on pronouns and accepted he, his, she, or her when not dolled up. But in drag, Jackie was always a lady.
She called herself Jackie Thunderpussy in the beginning. Colette had quickly persuaded her to go with a less offensive last name, so she became Jackie Mezzo, a musical term that meant medium or moderately when it came to sound.
Jackie had always been more of a FortĂ©âstrong and loudâbut Mezzo had a nice ring to it. She asked emcees to introduce her as the Moderate Jackie Mezzo for a bit, a nod to Thoroughly Modern Milly, one of Jackieâs favorite old films. It starred a trio of drag iconsâJulie Andrews, Mary Tyler Moore, and Carol Channing. Jackie impersonated Channing on stage for a while. She could imitate Carolâs voice perfectly.
Mezzo was also an homage to Paxtonâs high school band nerd daysâsome of the best days (and nights) in his teenage lifeâand the brief moment he was contemplating Juilliard. Pax played trumpet back then. He had wanted to play the oboe or piccolo, but according to his father, those were âfag instruments.â
âGonna go blow your horn in the big city?â his father had teased when Pax informed his parents where he was going.
âOh, Iâm gonna blow something alright!â
Pax had left for New York the day after high school graduation. Heâd never returned to the Midwestânot onceâbut keeping up with the local headlines via his online newspaper subscription was a weekly ritual, even now, twenty years later. He often joked about choosing to read the obituaries first, but Colette knew from experience that he longed for a connection to home.
Jackie and Colette had met in Saks while Colette was still at NYU. Jackie worked the cosmetics counter, and she tutored Colette with her make-up. Theyâd been best friends ever since. They shared a crowded apartment in Queens until Colette landed her position at the Tribune and decided to buy the townhouse in Chelsea for them.
âCan we afford this?â Jackie had asked.
âWe?â Colette joked.
âHoney, Iâm good at what I do, but Mamaâs gonna have to start working the corners again to help pay for this place. Besides, Iâve never been a Chelsea girl.â
âYou were never a Queens girl either.â
âNo, but I am a queen.â
âTouchĂ©!â Colette had always loved Jackieâs sense of humor.
âAnd Iâm a lady,â Jackie purred.
Colette had made quite a name for herself as a journalist. First, at the Village Voice, now the New York City Tribune. She was the lead investigative journalist, and her editor let her have her pick when it came to stories she wanted to chase. Sheâd had a list of dreams since day one in the city. It included being a big-time New York journalist. Owning a brownstone in Chelsea was also on her list.
âAny good stories this morning?â Colette said, peeking at Jackieâs screen.
âYou really want to know?â
âSure, hit me!â
âA few dead sex workers have been found near the Mississippi River in Greenway City.â
âMale or female?â
âMale. Barrett Newbern thinks it could be a serial killer.â
âIs he the reporter who went to your high school?â
âThatâs the one. He played trombone in the band. Huge cock! Heâs calling him the Greenway City Killer.â
âThatâs a weird name for his cock.â
âNot even one cup of coffee, and now youâre the comedian?â
âSorry. I couldnât resist. It does seem early to be giving a killer a nickname.â
âLocal press always does.â
âItâs not very helpful. If a killer keeps going, a nickname just adds to their mythology. Whereâs Greenway City anyway?â Colette said, leaning over Jackieâs shoulder to read the article.
âNorthside of downtown. Lots of crime there. Poverty. The people who live there are mostly African American.â
âGang-related, maybe?â
âMaybe, but I donât think so. The victims are all white.â
âCould be drugs.â
âItâs odd that the paper points out they were sex workers.â
âMaybe they owed someone money.â
âAinât no white boys working the streets in Greenway City,â Jackie said, shaking her head.
âYou did, didnât you? Greenway City probably went downhill after you left,â Colette teased.
âNo, maâam. You know I was a Ladue girl. Ms. Jackie gotta get paid!â
Paxton had come from money. His parents still lived in the prominent St. Louis neighborhood. They were also devout Catholics, so Pax stayed in the closet until near the end of his senior year.
He never spoke to them, but birthday, Easter, and Christmas cards signed âLove, Mom and Dadâ were an annual staple reminding him they were still there. Jackie pretended not to be phased by the cards when they arrived in the mail, but she still kept them. Colette had given up long ago on encouraging Jackie to call or write back.
After glancing over the article, Colette sat down across from Jackie. Her mug of coffee sat in front of her, untouched. Her eyes were blank. She was deep in thought, doing what she did best: unraveling a crime. Jackie looked at her and could see the wheels turning.
âDrink your juice, Shelby,â Jackie said, snapping a finger and doing her best Sally Field impression.
âWhaâsorry!â Colette said, shaking her head and lifting her mug to take a sip.
âI know what youâre doing. You donât want this one.â
âWhy not?â
âCâmon! Itâs the Midwest.â
âThis could be the next Gacy. Or Berkowitz!â
âNah, itâs probably what you said. Drugs or gangs or something,â Jackie said, backtracking to Coletteâs immediate intuitions and hoping to change her mind.
But Jackie already knew that Coletteâs foresight was better than that. Her intuition was undeniable, and trying to change her mind was a lost cause. Jackie let out a dramatic sigh and started typing.
âWhat are you looking up now?â Colette asked.
âFlights to St. Louis.â
âFor who?â
âFor you.â
âHow do you know Iâm going?â
âLook me in the face and tell me you donât want to go.â
Coletteâs eyes met Jackieâs, but she did not say anything. Instead, she sipped her coffee and waited.
âThereâs a red eye tonight,â Jackie said.
âBook it for me.â
âI already did.â
When we first meet Colette Birzhan, she is enjoying the oasis of her home environment, the Chelsea townhouse she shares with her best friend Jackie and their cat, Mr. Bojangles. Colette and Jackie are clearly living their best lives. They are both trans women who endured years of struggle before creating this current reality in which they are free to embrace and revel in their true identities.
They clearly take none of the pleasures in their lives for granted. Colette loves to sleep late; Jackie loves the rare Sundays that Colette gets up early enough to join her for Sunday brunch.
They have a witty rapport between them, and value their friendship over romance, enjoying occasional no-strings relationships, usually when Colette is traveling.
And she does travel. She is a prominent investigative journalist and is drawn to stories others might ignore or misrepresent. She fearlessly goes after the truth, no matter where it takes her.
The story begins when Jackie shares an item from the local paper in her hometown of St. Louis. Several male sex workers have been murdered. Local reporting has been sloppy, and law enforcement has been indifferent. Jackie recognizes the spark in Coletteâs eye and has booked her a plane ticket before Colette even announces her intention to go and investigate.
Colette goes where others wouldnât be willing. Upon arriving in St. Louis, the first contact she makes is a homeless man who gives her insights into the murders from his own unique perspective. A reporter sticking to safe and traditional sources would never be privy to that information.
The story is well-paced and engrossing. It takes the reader into the minds of several memorable characters who are either on the margins of society or barely visible to others, revealing them in their full humanity. I got attached to a few of them.
That led to my one and only criticism of the book. When I was pages away from finishing it, I was debating about whether I would give it four or five stars. Itâs that good. But then a character I had grown to care about disappears without much comment or concern from others, including Colette.
I suppose it is a realistic portrayal of someone who has difficulty trusting and forming connections. But it made the story feel incomplete and left me feeling sad.
According to his website, Shannon Yarbrough plans to make this at least a three-book series, with the second coming out in March 2024. I will definitely read it, as well as any others that follow. I can easily see Colette taking her place alongside Tess Monaghan and Kinsey Millhone as a brave heroine who follows her curious nature into dangerous places and sheds much-needed light on them.
Iâd like to thank Reedsy Discovery and Shannon Yarbrough for the opportunity to read and review this ARC.
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