Thief, private investigator, shadow walker. When he stole from the wrong people, Lloyd Gibson was forced into hiding, returning to his hometown of Calgary, where he squats in an abandoned warehouse, taking odd jobs as a private investigator just to make ends meet. Without a licence or office, his primary clientele are the paranoid and delusional who think ghosts exist or that pigeons are spying on them at the behest of their reptilian masters. Itâs arbitrary and boring, mind-numbing and frustrating, but it pays the bills.
His first genuine case arrived when Mireya Delgado called. As a fire investigator, she stumbled upon a series of unexplainable events that her superiors didnât want to know about. So, she found the dodgiest investigator in the city to get to the truth, embroiling him in an eighty-year conspiracy with deep connections to his own past.
Enter the Noctis with Lloyd as he discovers shady organizations, secret agents, and a literal Supervillain straight out of the comics with a hot temper and a penchant for starting fires. However, Lloyd has his own superpower, and what lurks in the shadows may be the only thing that can put an end to the fiery rampage.
Thief, private investigator, shadow walker. When he stole from the wrong people, Lloyd Gibson was forced into hiding, returning to his hometown of Calgary, where he squats in an abandoned warehouse, taking odd jobs as a private investigator just to make ends meet. Without a licence or office, his primary clientele are the paranoid and delusional who think ghosts exist or that pigeons are spying on them at the behest of their reptilian masters. Itâs arbitrary and boring, mind-numbing and frustrating, but it pays the bills.
His first genuine case arrived when Mireya Delgado called. As a fire investigator, she stumbled upon a series of unexplainable events that her superiors didnât want to know about. So, she found the dodgiest investigator in the city to get to the truth, embroiling him in an eighty-year conspiracy with deep connections to his own past.
Enter the Noctis with Lloyd as he discovers shady organizations, secret agents, and a literal Supervillain straight out of the comics with a hot temper and a penchant for starting fires. However, Lloyd has his own superpower, and what lurks in the shadows may be the only thing that can put an end to the fiery rampage.
The telltale shuffle of corduroy rubbing between thicker-than-average thighs grew close, the brisk and purposeful pace drawing my attention from my phone. I turned the screen off, leaving an article speculating about the lives of the cast of Seinfeld, if they existed in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and stood up from the double-sided park bench that was more comfortable than it appeared.
âAhem,â said an older, heavy-set businessman, glancing pointedly between the park bench and me. I sat back down, crossed my legs, and pretended to be a casual birdwatcher, avoiding eye contact with him.
Weâre playing this game, are we?
He was a short, stocky gentleman with gray hair styled in an unconvincing comb-over. He was wearing an untailored beige suit, two sizes too big, with cuffs hanging limply over his right palm (his left hand stuffed in his pocket), fastened together by expensive silver and gold cufflinks. A pair of uncomfortable-looking brown penny loafers adorned his feet, and a crisply folded newspaper was tucked under his arm. Sweat beaded on his forehead, likely from the effort of walking more than ten feet at once or the fact he was wearing corduroy in July. He appraised me hurriedly through his bifocals, giving me more judgment in two seconds than I ever received from all the girls in high school.
He sat behind me and dramatically flourished his newspaper. âMister Gibson?â he asked with a husky voice without turning his head.
âCall me Lloyd.â I hated formalities and using my real name. I had used various aliases throughout my life, but those days were over. âCan I call you Bob?â
âNo.â
âHello, Mister Arsenal.â
âYou look like youâre homeless,â he informed me. âUtterly unprofessional.â
âIâll have you know, Iâm wearing my Sunday best,â I said, offended. I was an average-looking Caucasian male in my late thirties, standing at six-foot-two with light brown hair and eyes. My eyebrows were bushier than Iâd like, and I had the remnants of a scar on my nose from a nasty fall as a child. Today, I wore a breezy blue generic t-shirt from Old Navy, complemented by slightly wrinkled blue jeans with more than one hole in them. Blue on blue, I was bringing it back. Scuff marks coated my Nikes, devaluing the most expensive item I currently owned (that I hadnât paid for). A white ball cap with a red maple leaf and the word âSorryâ embroidered in white block letters sat on my head, and my signature wraparound sunglasses, prescription due to severe light sensitivity, rested on my nose.
âI look spiffy.â
Bob cleared his throat as he turned a page in his newspaper. âWhat did you find?â
âYou do realize that newspaper makes us look even more suspicious, right?â I asked. âI mean, a lot of people have seen movies.â
âWhat did you find?â he repeated through clenched teeth.
âNothing,â I said, patting a manila folder on the bench beside me. âI have all his recent bank records, which show no suspicious transactions or large withdrawals. I have photos of him going to and from work, with no stops for the last week. Heâs had no social visits, interacting with no one outside the office. I couldnât get into his phone records, but I did manage to sneak a look at his cell, and he has no outgoing calls, all his texts were work-related or spam, and no personal emails aside from subscriptions and promotions. He literally has no life.â He needed a more secure passwordâfiguring out it was his beloved catâs name wasn't hard.
âWhat about his work email?â
âWhat about it? You specifically told me not to enter the office,â I reminded him.
âThat was your problem to work around,â he scolded.
âHow? Itâs a secure intranet, only accessible from inside the building.â
âYouâre the investigatorâthis is what Iâm paying you for!â He shuffled through a few more pages, pretending to read.
âWith a hand tied behind my back? Iâm not a magician. Look, heâs living the most mundane, boring life imaginable, and I wouldnât blame him for wanting a change. Still, thereâs no indication heâs up to anything nefarious.â
âHe is. I know he is.â
âMr. Arsenal, by all indications, your son is not trying to kill you.â
Bob sat silently for a long moment, his body tense, and he stopped flipping through the newspaper. âHow much is he paying you?â
âWho?â I asked incredulously.
I knew where this was going. From the first time I spoke to this man, I knew Iâd be getting screwed in the end, but I was desperate for money, so I took the risk.
âMy son. How much is he paying you?â he demanded, the words hissing through his teeth, still refusing to look back at me.
I sighed, rubbing my thumb and forefinger over my eyes, beneath my shades. âYou donât pay your son enough money for him to pay me anything.â
Bob exhaled heavily through his nose and folded the newspaper on his lap. âYour work is shoddy, and you have proven nothing. I know he is trying to kill me. Iâve been informed.â
This is why I ask for an upfront deposit before taking on a case. I was getting the sense that I was not collecting the rest of the payment.
âBy whom?" I asked. âYou keep saying that, but you wonât tell me anything. If I knew where you received that information, Iâd have something concrete to work with.â
âIt doesnât matter who told me, just that they did.â
âThen weâre done here,â I said, rising to my feet. âYou can keep the folder. Iâve taken this investigation as far as possible without further information, which you refuse to provide. So, I will take the rest of the payment, and our business will be concluded.â
âIâm not paying you a damn thing!â he shouted, no longer choosing discretion. âYouâve proven nothing!â
I spun around and looked at him. âProve what? One can prove that someone is doing something. Itâs impossible to conclusively prove theyâre not.â
With the ridiculous charade over, Bob stood and looked at me with an intense glare. âYou are the worst private investigator I have ever seen,â he said, literally spitting his words.
A drop of saliva hit me in the face, which I wiped away immediately and glared back at him. âAnd you have absolutely no idea how any of this works,â I argued in return. âI canât do what I require to get the information you need, and thatâs my fault? Youâre paranoid and delusional.â
Bobâs glare intensified, his limbs shaking with actual rage. âI know what I was told and trust my sources.â His teeth were clenched so hard his jaw shook from the strain. I half expected his teeth to shatter.
âYour son barely interacts with anyone. So unless his source is his fucking cat, whoever is talking to you is lying.â
Bobâs eyes widened in a comically large expression of surprise. âHow do you know about Mr. Neeners?â
I stared back at him, stunned, my mouth agape. âItâare you actually telling me the cat told you?â
His face suddenly turned from surprise to terror, the rage immediately replaced by fear. âOh my God, youâre one of them!â he cried, pointing at me like a Body Snatcher. âYouâre a changeling!â
âIâm a what?â
Rather than answering, Bob turned tail and ran away. Well, he shuffled at a moderately faster paceâa swift, drunken walk, really.
I watched as he stumbled away, rasping heavily in exertion, glancing back periodically to ensure I wasnât pursuing. As he faded from sight, I sighed, gathered up the folder, and headed home. An entire week, wasted, with nothing to show for it. The majority of his deposit went toward bribing someone for those bank details.
Is this how life is going to be now? I lose everything, go straight, and put up with this bullshit? A year ago, I was living in a fucking mansion. Well, a two-story penthouse in New York City, but still. Now I live in a small, uninsulated warehouse, scraping by on the whims of Calgaryâs paranoid delusional rich folks. I didnât have much choice, as it was too risky to keep stealing things, but there had to be a better alternative.
This was a complete and absolute waste of having a superpower.
Written in the first-person perspective traditional to many noir PI tales, In Like Lloyd presents a new breed of private investigator: one with the mysterious power to âflipâ into an alternate dimension he calls the âNoctisâ. It is the story of how Lloyd Gibson attempts to himself out of a hole in which he finds himself after the sudden termination of his long and lucrative crime spree. Â His challenge begins with the appearance of his new client, Mireya Delgado.
Lloyd Gibson is more complex than he seems. Initially appearing as a sarcastic, mouthy joker, it is revealed throughout the story that this is an attitude he has adopted to mask the hurt, fear, mistrust, and insecurity resulting from an unfulfilled relationship with his uncaring, neglectful mother, and his childhood as a friendless loner who never learned how to form genuine connections with others. Armstrong artfully crafts the shell of Lloydâs character, allowing the reader to discover the chinks in his armor as his vulnerabilities are gradually revealed.
Lloydâs growth evolves through his relationship with Mireya as the two join forces to investigate her case. A loner, herself, she is drawn to Lloydâs plight through her deep sense of empathy and awareness. Her presence comes to the fore when she remains by his side to take care of him after he sustains severe physical wounds following a run-in with Casimir Brandt, the supervillain. Â Mireyaâs gentle intrusion into Lloydâs life includes the introduction of comfort in the form of various items of furniture, home cooked meals, and companionship. As they grow closer, Mireyaâs support becomes a catalyst for change in Lloydâs perspective.
Lloydâs sense of self-worth also evolves as he engages with dangerous adversaries and characters ranging from shady to downright nefarious. Racing against time to find and stop Casimir from waging his campaign of death and destruction, Lloyd follows a trail that leads to something much bigger and more sinister than a couple of fires, including a hidden underground prison, where Lloyd discovers the origins of his unusual power.Â
Armstrong introduces a colorful cast of characters throughout In Like Lloyd: Mary-Sue, a surprisingly chipper Goth girl and inexplicable companion of one Agent Bradstone, who tails Lloyd to find Casimir; as well as the potential victims on Casimirâs hit list. The discovery of their identities suggests a moral dilemma when Lloyd finds that they appear to be more evil than Brandt is.
In Like Lloyd is a great launch for Matt Armstrongâs Noctis Investigations series. It is well-written and presents an entertaining blend of mystery, action, magic, and romance. I will be looking forward to Book 2 and the continuing adventures of Noctis Investigations. If you are a fan of Jim Butcherâs Dresden Files, you may enjoy this, as well.