Knot of the Slain Blood Angels: Book One TWISTED by T.C. Archer PROMO

KNOT OF THE SLAIN

Blood Angles

Part One

TWISTED
by 
T. C. Archer

AMAZON

Ice cold veins on a river of fire...

For Gerald Forstner, veteran detective, son of a cop, cult hunter, and divorced dad, the face of Miami changes when he must solve a series of murders eerily reminiscent of his first case as head of Miami’s Serial Killer Task Force.

When Gerry is inexplicably healed of a mortal stab wound by a beautiful blonde murder suspect, he questions his sanity and wisdom in remaining on the force. Discovery of Icelandic artifacts that document immortal priests and female assassins breaks the case wide open. The case, however, becomes personal when each murderer becomes the next victim in a chain that links directly to his son.

A jolt of awareness raced up homicide detective Gerry Forstner's back. He jerked his gaze from the long line of people waiting to enter Miami’s premier club, The Hot Spot, past the full parking lot to the darkness beyond. The only other time he had experienced that same someone just walked over my grave feeling had been during the Keepers of the Secret investigation.

Memory of the case returned with a vividness that belied the five years that had passed since the clues dead ended in the Florida Everglades. It had been his first assignment as head of Miami’s Serial Killer Task Force and the mental connection he had made with the killer that night had faded into a more rational sense of disbelief—until now. A spider-like sense of legs crawling inside his brain tickled the fringes of consciousness, then vanished.

Oppressive pressure crushed his chest. Gerry drew a slow breath to ease the constriction. A February gust sent a wave of goose bumps up his arms. He froze as a mental throb receded into the blackness of his mind. Where had that come from? What the hell was it?

Like a window shade that snapped up, music blared through the open door of the club, jarring him back to the sight of two women pressed close in a dirty dancing gyration. The taller of the women rubbed silicone double-Ds strapped into a sequined halter top against the other woman’s c-cup breasts. Several men had stepped out of line to watch. Gerry grimaced at the garish makeup the women wore and inhaled a shaky breath as he shifted his gaze to the line of glitterati backed up halfway down the block.

In the sea of heavenly female bodies, his gaze latched onto a busty dyed blonde waiting in line. She smiled, but he turned away. Whether it was the brassiness of the bottled color or the fact the woman was easily a foot shorter than his six feet, the knot in his gut told him he couldn't stomach another blonde. An unexpected desire to unravel that knot with a scotch surfaced. He’d been down that road before and nearly destroyed his life. No way was he going back. He headed for the front of the line and stopped beside the bouncer.

The big Cuban with no neck gave him a quick glance. “Back of the line,” he said, and motioned the two brunettes at the front of the line into the club with a nod.

Gerry watched the women sashay under the yellow neon light that flashed The Hot Spot, then step through the club’s open door.

“Busy tonight,” Gerry said.  

The man glared. Gerry pulled the badge from his back pocket and flipped it open.

The bouncer glanced at it. “Yeah?” he grunted as he motioned two more women into the club.

Digitized bass boomed in an abrupt crescendo and Gerry winced. “Is it always like this?” He motioned to the crowd.

“Thursday night’s always busy.” 

“Got a lot of regulars?”

“Dunno.” He waved in the two young women who’d been dancing together.

Gerry watched them enter the club. The sequined beauty cast a dark-eyed glance over her shoulder before disappearing inside. Damn, she’d known he was watching.

He looked back at the bouncer. “You’re new here.” 

The bouncer gave him an appraising look, then gave in. “Richie,” he replied.

Gerry reached inside his pullover sweater, located his shirt pocket, and retrieved the photo of Frank Vitelli. He held it out. “Recognize this guy?”

Richie looked at the photo. “Yeah. I seen him.”

“Was he here last night?”

The bouncer shrugged, bunching up what little neck he had until shoulders and jaw met. “Don’t remember. I seen lots of folks come and go.”

“You sure? This guy used his credit card here last night.”

He shrugged again and asked for the IDs of the young couple who stepped up next. Gerry pocketed the picture and brushed past him into the club. The fetid combination of sweet liquor, perfume, and sweat assaulted his nostrils. Dance music hammered his eardrums and multicolored lights flashed. He hadn’t been in The Hot Spot in a while, but its black walls and suspended tile ceiling still needed remodeling.

He scanned the tables, the dance floor, and the bar along the left wall. The place was jam-packed. He glanced at the occupancy sign. Two hundred and twelve, by order of the fire marshal. Twice that many were shoehorned inside. Gerry squeezed through the throng to the bar. He flashed his badge to get the nearest bartender’s attention. The barkeep nodded and grabbed a bottle of gin as a softer Latin tune played through the sound system.

“What’s your name?” Gerry asked.

“Collin.”

“Collin, did you see this guy last night?” He slid Vitelli’s mug-shot across the bar as the bartender set the gin on the counter and reached for two glasses from the overhead rack.

Collin dug each one through the ice machine beneath the bar as he studied the picture. “Yeah.” He metered a shot of gin into each glass. “Frankie. Big tipper.”

“Was he with anyone?”

Collin grabbed one of the dispenser lines in front of him and filled the glass to the rim with tonic. “Not at first. He cruised the floor until this woman he knows showed up.”

Gerry paused while reaching inside his sweater for a notepad and pen. “A woman he knows?”

After placing the two drinks at the waiter’s station to his right, Collin turned back to Gerry. “A blonde, tall, mid-shoulder-length hair. They hung out at the bar over there.” He jerked a thumb at the far end of the bar.

Gerry glanced in the mirror behind the bar at the hundred other blondes who fit that description. “Can you narrow it down? How about a name?”

Collin shook his head. “Naw.”

Gerry flipped open his pad. “What time did she arrive?”  

Collin turned, dug into the beer cooler and came up with a Heineken. “Maybe twelve-thirty.”

“Can you describe her?”

The bartender set the beer on the waiter’s station, grabbed the towel hanging over his shoulder, and wiped his hands. He leaned against the counter. “Good looking, but Frankie only goes for the lookers.”

Gerry began jotting notes. “How old?”

“Between twenty and twenty-five.”

“Height, weight?” 

“Five-eight, five-nine. One fifteen, maybe.”

“What was she wearing?”

He thought for a moment. “Short knit top—black—with her belly button showing. White skirt. Great legs. Despite the trendy outfit, she had a real goddess thing going on.” 

Gerry looked up from his notes. “Goddess thing?”

“Yeah. You know, tall, angled features, the classical look. Remember that sculpture, the Wings of Nike?”

“The goddess Nike?”

“Yeah.” Collin gazed upward, his expression deliberate as he recited, “‘When an August dawn wakes over you, your atmosphere is potent with their life, and sometimes a young ethereal figure indistinct, in rapid flight, wings across your hills.’” He refocused on Gerry. “Constantine Cavafy.”

Gerry raised a brow.

Collin grinned. “I dated an art major in college.” His grin widened. “She was something of a goddess herself.”

Gerry grinned back. He’d dated a goddess or two in his lifetime. “Our blonde goddess, what was she drinking?”

“Same as him, vodka martinis.”

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary with Frankie?” 

“No—” Collin snapped his fingers. “Wait, Frankie’s a pretty laid back guy, but I thought he was going to punch this chick.”

“The blonde?”

“Yeah.”

“What were they arguing about?”

Collin shook his head. “Frankie raised his voice. I turned and saw them almost nose-to-nose. I started for them, but Frankie saw me and laughed. The chick’s got balls. She grabbed his hand with that god-awful ring he was wearing, shoved it into his face, and laughed.” Collin whistled. “He’s big, she’s small. He could kill her with one punch.”

A glint in Gerry's peripheral vision startled him. “Sounds like the violent type,” he answered mildly as he turned his head toward the flicker. A moonlit river of grass stretched out in an endless silvery-tinted mass. The quiet drone of an air boat racing atop Everglades jumpstarted his heart. He inhaled sharply and got a nostril full of swampy air. His choke was cut off as the boat veered left and he clutched at empty space. How the hell—

“Look,” Collin's voice yanked him from that night in the Glades, and the club tune playing over the PA boomed in his ear, “in this business, you learn fast how to size up a guy. Frankie liked a good time, but was more flash than hard knocks. He made the dough, or acted like he did, and made sure the chicks knew it.”

A short, redheaded waitress appeared at Gerry’s side. “I need a pina colada and a Bud draft.”

“Get Roy to do it, will you, baby?” Collin said. “I’m kinda busy.”

She gave Gerry a curious glance. He stared, his heart still thudding so loudly he felt sure she could hear it. She shrugged and headed to the other side of the bar.

“You okay?” Collin asked.

Gerry looked back at him. “Yeah. This blonde, you know her?”  

“She started hanging around with Frankie about a month ago.” 

Gerry studied him. “You sound pretty sure about that.”

“You don’t forget a woman like that.”

“Were they good friends?”

“They had a thing going.”

“Thing?” Gerry repeated.

A loud whoop went up from the dance floor. The bartender flicked a glance over Gerry’s shoulder before answering, “Thing, chemistry. Maybe a love-hate thing.”

“The other night was the first time Frankie was…aggressive?”

“I wouldn’t call it aggressive. More like…short tempered.”

“Did this short temper start when he began hanging around with the blonde?”

Collin looked startled. “I guess it did.”

“You know anything about his business?”  

Collin held up both hands, palms out. “Whoa, man. Frankie considers himself some sort of player. Fantasy or not, I don’t want any piece of that action.”

Gerry gave a small nod. “But he was a good tipper.”

“Yeah. He was one of those guys who wanted to be somebody. Can’t blame a guy for wanting respect.”

“Nope,” Gerry agreed. “Can’t blame a guy for that. You don’t know anything else about this blonde? Did she have a jealous ex-boyfriend?”

“I see a lot of people in here. I don’t know anything about them outside of what goes on here.”

Gerry reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a business card, and placed it on the bar. “If you remember anything else, call me.” He reached for the picture.

Collin grabbed his wrist. “Is Frankie in trouble?”

Gerry paused. Damn. The guy didn’t read the papers. An hour after Gerry had been assigned the case, the story broke about Frank Vitelli, the third victim in what the newspapers dubbed The Valknut Murders. Chief Herrero had already gotten a phone call from the local Asatru community. They were concerned about the fact some nut was using the three interlocked triangle of their Valknut holy symbol as a signature for murder. Who knew what that concern would turn into if they discovered that the Valknut had been drawn on each of the three dead bodies with the blood of the following victim?

Gerry pulled loose of Collin’s grip. “Frankie was murdered last night.”

T. C. Archer

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T. C. Archer is comprised of award winning authors Evan Trevane and Shawn M. Casey. They live in the Northeast. Evan has a Ph.D. in electrical engineering, and Shawn is a small business owner. Their collaboration began on a lark with the post WWII film noir story The Pickle My Little Friend, and has evolved into over a dozen works, which includes their new series The Phenom League, the Blood Angels series, and Daphne Du Maurier winner, the romantic thriller For His Eyes Only.