Most people would call it bad luck; some would call it fate, while the adjusted few would simply call it life. It was all about money--a lot of money, and I became the unknowing victim of the perfect frame. As fast as the wind changes, I found myself clawing my way out of a carefully constructed web of murder, deceit, and greed that left me the prime suspect in two gruesome killings.
My name is Nick Thomas. I'm a struggling mystery writer and recovering alcoholic who lives in a small cottage by the bay. I wear blue jeans, drive a temperamental old MG, and listen to the Rolling Stones. I am a lucky man who'd been given a second chance in life. It was then, basking in my contentment when the walls of my life came crashing down. Through noble intentions and sometimes errant judgment, I find myself in some very precarious situations. This time my life hung in the balance.
Most people would call it bad luck; some would call it fate, while the adjusted few would simply call it life. It was all about money--a lot of money, and I became the unknowing victim of the perfect frame. As fast as the wind changes, I found myself clawing my way out of a carefully constructed web of murder, deceit, and greed that left me the prime suspect in two gruesome killings.
My name is Nick Thomas. I'm a struggling mystery writer and recovering alcoholic who lives in a small cottage by the bay. I wear blue jeans, drive a temperamental old MG, and listen to the Rolling Stones. I am a lucky man who'd been given a second chance in life. It was then, basking in my contentment when the walls of my life came crashing down. Through noble intentions and sometimes errant judgment, I find myself in some very precarious situations. This time my life hung in the balance.
The lone woman worked with a fury at her computer in the rear of the dark warehouse, lit only by a single, harsh fluorescent lamp that hung suspended by two rusty chains over her desk. The rest of the damp, humid chamber was shrouded in musty shadows. Bits of odd machinery and pallets loaded with various-sized crates littered the concrete floor. The woman seemed nervous and kept looking back over her shoulder as if she were expecting someone. Sheâd shiver and stop typing every so often to peer back into the darkness, shading her eyes with her hand. Then, after a moment, sheâd return to her screen and resume working. The only company she had was music from an oldies radio station that cut into the heavy silence. The dark-clad figure found the door to the warehouse unlocked, as he knew it would be, and entered through the loading bay without a sound, closing the metal door softly behind him. The front 2 Tom Rieber half of the huge room was pitch black and he paused to let his eyes adjust and his senses tune in to his surroundings. The intruder smelled the musty air from the August humidity inside the old warehouse along with the fishy smell from the small marshy harbor outside. He glanced at his black diverâs watch confirming that it was 8:15 p.m.âwell after closing time. He had to be done with this by 8:30 and he knew going in that no variations from the plan would be acceptable. Every detail had been carefully timed and planned. So far all was going according to schedule. He heard the steady tapping of the womanâs fingers flying across the keyboard and the soft music coming from her radio somewhere in the back by her desk. He had parked across the lot at the busy restaurant and patiently watched everyone else leave as he had many times before. He was very thorough at his little game. He was the hunter, patiently stalking, and she was the unknowing preyâthe lion and the lamb. Nothing was left to chance. He had become totally absorbed into the role and it excited him beyond expectation, creating a high that money couldnât buy. The intruder even knew that the womanâs partner, Shawn, was blissfully working on his second or third cocktail by now and would never consider going back to the office. The man smiled and thought to himself, âHeâd better have a good time tonight because tomorrowâs gonna be a whole different story.â He advanced slowly and could see the back of the womanâs head bathed in a harsh pool of light from the overhead fixture. She had long, fierce black curls that cascaded down the middle of her back. She was short but well-built and had a deep, natural color. She wore a turquoise tank top and white shorts, which accented her skin and her well-defined body. He had no doubt that she had to die. It was just a shame thatâs all. He had seen her face a lot lately, even as he slept, and he would wake up sweating with his heart pounding wildly, gasping for breath. He had even fantasized about being with her many times. Finally, she belonged to him and the union soon would be complete. This was a test and he knew it. Part of him wanted to turn around and forget this whole thing. She hadnât seen him yet. But noâit was too late. He was committed and had no choice but to follow through and do it right. He felt his hands sweating inside thick leather gloves as he crept forward slowly and silently in his black rubber-soled shoes to where she sat at her computer terminal. He watched her sitting straight and noted the strong lines of her jaw as she concentrated on the screen before her. He continued to inch forward blending in with the shadows around him. He picked his way around a large packing crate and was almost in plain view. She would see him if she turned. She was only about ten feet away now. The announcer on the radio was telling of more sweltering heat to come. He swallowed hard, reached back, and found the butt of the large revolver that was tucked into his waistband in the small of his back. Just as he tightened his fingers around the smooth butt, his foot struck an object that was lying on the darkened floor in front of him, making a loud metallic clatter on the cement. âShit!â He exclaimed loudly, startling himself as well as the woman. He fought the impulse to run. The woman whirled around in her chair and looked straight at him, startled and scared. Her eyes were large and round, and her mouth was open, ready to scream. âWhat the . . . You scared the hell out of me!â She sighed and then smiled at him nervously, but with obvious relief. âHang on a sec. Iâll be right with you, OK? I just want to finish what Iâm working on. Itâll only take a minute.â He nodded as she turned back to her screen, then wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. She didnât appear to notice or question his thick gloves or dark clothes. He felt a moment of uncertainty. She didnât seem so bad, he thought, and boy she really was a looker! His heart was racing and his mouth was dry. Heâd heard that she was always pissed off at somebody. But she was nice to him now. Were they wrong? Could be. He smiled his best smile and reached down to pick up the object that so rudely announced his arrival. âTake your time,â he answered her thickly, trying to be casual as the heavy revolver dug into his back. Heart racing, he tasted the cocaine in the back of his throat. Maybe he shouldnât have done any till this was over. Oh well, it was too late now and nobody would know! Plus, he loved the warm surge of ecstasy the cocaine gave him, deep in his belly. He stared at the object in his hand and almost laughed aloud when he saw that it was a golf club. All the planning in the world just went to hell in one second because of a stupid golf clubâa game for the fat and lazy. He studied the club for a brief moment and noted the detail as if to ease his anxiety. It had a long chrome shaft with a wedge on one end and a rubber grip on the other. The number 9 was stamped on the wedge end. He hefted the club and tossed it back against his right shoulder, smiled, and walked towards her, much the same way a soldier marched with a rifle. Sheâd already turned back to the computer and was totally absorbed in her typing when he came up behind her. The scream froze in her throat when she saw the reflection of the steel shaft descending in an arc towards her head on the screen in front of her . . . a fraction of a second, and a lifetime, too late. He watched with a mix of fascination and horror as he buried the club into the dark mass of curls. Heâd never hurt anyone before. Not like this anyway. It was like an out-of-body experience in which he was the spectator. The club partially deflected off her arm when she raised it to ward off the blow. But it still landed hard against her skull sending her sprawling sideways out of her chair and onto the cement floor. He knew she must at least be dazed because he heard a nasty-sounding crack when her head hit the floor. Her eyes rolled back and her mouth stayed open. Now he just wanted to get out of there fast, but he knew he had to finish the job he had started. She had seen his face and could identify him. How could he have gotten involved in this nightmare? âWhy?â he looked up and asked God aloud. God chose not to answer him. The attacker looked down at the club and saw that the wedge was covered with blood and some of her now-sticky black hair, and then he stared at her. She wasnât moving, and he didnât see her breathing. There was a large gash just above her right ear that was open, bleeding, and very ugly. There was a stirring deep in his loins and he felt a hot rush of excitement. He raised the club over his head, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then stopped himself. She was already dead, he thought. He watched her prone, lifeless figure. There was no sign of breathing and he wasnât about to touch her. She looked dead all right and that was good enough for him. He glanced down at his watch. 8:23 p.m. He felt weak and sick to his stomach. It was way too late now! He knew he had to keep a level head or else he would go to jail for the rest of his life. He just prayed it would all be worth the risk. He checked himself and saw blood splattered on his pants and shoes. He would get rid of these clothes tonight. He leaned the bloody club against a nearby desk, picked up the phone with his gloved hand, and punched out a memorized phone number. He knew that he had done what he came to do, even though it didnât go exactly as they had planned. He put the receiver to his ear and listened as it rang once, and then again. He heard a click and then silence. He spoke softly into the receiver, and quickly hung up, not expecting a reply. He stared down at her motionless body once more and shrugged his shoulders. He did what needed to be done. No time for regrets now. He picked up the bloodied club and headed out of the warehouse the same way he came in. He looked at his watch and noted that it was 8:26 p.m. His mind raced. She wasnât supposed to die by a golf club! Now what to do with the club? He told himself to stay calm over and over. He was aware of his own breathing and heard a loud thumping that he realized came from his own heart. All he had to do was to get out of there without incident, and he was home free. He pushed open the metal door a crack, looked outside, and scanned the large lot carefully. There was the usual activity at the restaurant next door and nobody seemed to be looking his way with any interest. The front half of the old building was an art co-op that had been there for years and was closed for the evening. The only car parked next to the building was the womanâs black Acura. This was a normal sight because she always worked late. He slipped out the door, pulled it closed behind him, and then leaned the bloody golf club against the door. He smiled to himself thinking that this was a true stroke of genius. The next person to go into the building would have to touch the club and leave their prints. In the semi-darkness the blood and hair on the other end wasnât visible so at first glance, the club wouldnât seem too out of place-just careless. The man smiled again knowing that his prints would not be found. He felt the .357 Smith & Wesson Combat Magnum in the small of his back that he was supposed to have used on her, but things happened a little too fast. He didnât want to toss the gun as he was instructed to do, because he didnât use it on the woman. He decided to hang on to it until he could figure out what to do with it, besides it might come in handy and it was a nice gun. But it was not something he wanted to get caught with. The gun already had a history and with a little diligence, it might somehow be traced back to him. He took one last look around the parking lot and, 8 Tom Rieber satisfied that he was unobserved, went around the side of the building, and disappeared quietly into the night. He didnât see the darkened patrol car parked in the shadows near the restaurant.
Nick Thomas writes mystery novels. He steps into the cool, capable, and composed shoes of his main character, PI Eddie Kane, while he is writing. But in real life, when smelly stuff hits the fan and he finds himself framed for the murder of his ex-wife, Carla, pretending to be Eddie Kane fails miserably. Sure, it helps him get the gun away from his would-be captor, Vince, who forces him to drive around while pointing said gun at Nick's head, but: Spoiler alert! Nick is so bad at being Eddie Kane that he allows - nay, orders - Vince to make him breakfast, but doesn't bother watching carefully to make sure no odd ingredients are added to his eggs and coffee.
The murder of his ex-wife creates a very bad few days for Nick, who must attempt to evade the police, as well as the killer, who has left Nick pointed clues to inform him that he will be next. Things are further complicated when Carla's partner is murdered, as well. It becomes clear that Nick should stick to writing. He also has too much heart to be cold and analytical.
Overall, The Nine Irony is an entertaining story that offers mystery, adventure, hard knocks, and crazy drug addicts. Rieber demonstrates the ability to offer a good story. However, a reading by another pair of eyes or an additional edit may have assisted in correcting some errors, including the lack of punctuation in some places, the reduction of too many unnecessary exclamation points, and spelling.
Luckily, the small number of these errors does not detract from the actual body of work.
However, the parts of the story that deviate from the first person narrative do detract from the work. These sidetracks involve the activities of a character named Pete, and his part of the narrative is written in the third person. Pete is unnecessary to Nick's story, as well as the transition from first to third person. These deviations make Pete's story seem irrelevant to the actual story at hand. Rieber would have been better off leaving Pete out of the story all together, as he serves no purpose and is - spoiler alert! - explained away as such at the end of the story.
Rieber does create the atmosphere for a first-person type noir offering, helped by the smart-aleck attitude of Nick Thomas, which attitude is often found in PI mystery novels. The Nine Irony is a fun and entertaining read,