Murder at the Speed of Life. (Part 1) My Name is "Friend"
#1 of Murder at the Speed of Life
All Daniel Kent wished for was a quiet life as a guitar man, playing jazz at the local night club.
But it's no easy task, when you have voices in your head telling you, you are a half-demon being from another dimension.
Matters don't grow easier when your best friend is a werewolf, and a serial bomber decides to set the city alight with explosive reading lights.
In this episode, Daniel decides to investigate what's for real, and what's a delusion.
He soon learns, both friends and enemies want him on their own team.
But who is your friend, and who is your enemy?
This story is the direct continuation of "Cry me a Murder" but new readers can jump on board here.
Prologue:
My Name is Friend
The first thing Eve Kotha noticed when she opened the door to the"Starvin' Darwin" convenience store, was how the air had changed. Until last week, Mrs Glick, the shopkeeper always wore a floral Lakeland perfume that made the tiny shop smell like geranium, peppermint candy and medicated skin cream. It was the scent of a kindly old aunt, Eve never knew. She had money in her pocket and a mind set on sweets, but she almost turned on her heel when she saw the new man behind the counter. He was old -at least thirty. He was unshaven and wearing a Hawaii shirt with damp stains under the armpits. Familiar Lakeland fragrance had been replaced with acrid cigarette smoke and a thick smell of engine oil.
"Where's Mrs. Glick?"
Eve had taken an instant dislike to the new shopkeeper.
The man shrugged. "Retired and moved to Florida? Whadda I know? I'm here. She's somewhere else."
Eve threw her money on the counter "Dollar an' fifty worth of sweets."
The man filled a small paper bag with random candy from the shelving system behind him.
"There ya go!" he said, wrapping the bag much too quickly. Unlike Mrs Glick, the new man didn't take the time to handpick the sweets one by one. He didn't know Eve, he didn't care about her tastes, and Eve had a sinking sensation something precious had packed and moved south along with Mrs Glick. The bag of sweets felt smaller than what she'd normally get for a dollar fifty, and the fistful of coins the shopkeeper gave her back didn't seem right either. Like the bag, the pile of change was too small, too light.
"Where's the rest of my change."
"Listen, toots. You gave me a five dollar bill, and I gave you three fifty in change. That's how business works."
"That was a TEN dollar note!"
"I've been in this business for fifteen years," replied the man, now audibly annoyed. "How old are you? Nine? I'm surprised you can even COUNT to ten!"
Eve felt her throat clenching up, tears burned behind her eyelids. She had given him a ten dollar note, she was sure of it.
"You'd better give me my change or..." Eve squinted her eyes to give him her most menacing look.
"-or I'll call my friend."
The new shopkeeper looked at Eve for a few moments, before breaking into a short laugh. "You mean that black kid who burps with every word? Whatshisname? Jack?"
"It's JAKE!"
Eve was growing increasingly spiteful towards the man. Now he couldn't even get Jake's name right. Jake was the greatest belcher in the neighborhood. He could suck air into his stomach at will and let out massive burps. He claimed he could burp the two first lines of "Mary had a little lamb", but Eve had only heard him belch the alphabet from "A" through "G". He always stumbled at "H" because EYTCH is a very long sound. Nonetheless, his air control was a source of awe in the neighborhood. Jake tried to teach the other kids his method, but it seemed impossible to learn. He would point to a spot between his ribs. "It's a muscle right... there," and look in quiet bemusement as his friends strained and hiccupped. But eventually they only made feeble, throaty noises.
It was the same thing when Eve let _Friend_out.
You had to relax a muscle deep down in your belly. You could point to the spot, but the mechanics of letting _Friend_loose was impossible to teach.
"Not Jake," said Eve. " Jake is nice, but you won't like my other friend."
Jake was a good friend, but he wasn't_Friend_. Only Friend_was _Friend, though Eve wasn't sure he was any good. But _Friend_got things done. He could set things in motion when the world turned against you.
"Now scram, kid. You're creeping me out." The new shopkeeper turned to stick price tags on a box of auto parts. "I got things to do."
"Too late," growled Eve, her voice no longer that of a ten year old girl.
"_Friend_is here."
Chapter I
Countdown to Murder
Whenever somebody brought up the subject of death during conversation, Dianne Walsh would politely change the topic, or come up with an excuse to walk away. To Dianne Walsh, death was an event that belonged within the confinements of crime fiction. It was a conclusion to novelized lives, a fate reserved for the old and the terminally ill - or for -disease-ridden foreigners in dusty countries she had never visited. Death was an unsettling notion that could be kept at bay at the touch of a remote control or the closing of a book.
She didn't write about death either. True, she let Angelina McFairlane inherit a Scottish castle from a long lost uncle, in "The Heiress of Dunblaine." But apart from that one slip, her romance novels were brimming with love and weddings, Windsor ties, betrayal and mended hearts. So when Dianne sat down, and lit the one _Dunhill_she allowed herself every night after work, she was blissfully unaware that its ten-minute lifespan would outlast her own.
She was a thin woman -some would say skinny. At thirty seven she had a premature worried look in brown eyes that darted like she was chasing invisible butterflies, and always avoiding eye contact that lasted for more than a second. Cigarette loosely clenched between cherry flavored lips, she eased into her favorite reading chair and unwrapped a proof-copy of her latest novel:
Hearts of Amber - the NEW best-selling romance by Diane Walsh.
With two minutes left to live, Dianne Walsh sighed, There_'s two N's to my name!_She took a gentle puff from her cigarette and studied the cover blurb.
Through a career spanning ten years and eleven best-selling novels, including the award-winning "High-range Romance" and "Love at 8000 ft." Diane Walsh has secured her position as the leading writer of modern romance.
There it was again - Diane with a solitary "N". Had the publishers made a typo, or were they trying to annoy her on purpose? She checked her watch, a _Larco_mechanical she'd found in an antique shop. It came with a green faux leather strap, silver dial, and time stamped in roman numerals. It was remarkably precise for a fifty year old watch. With exactly one minute and sixteen seconds left, Dianne decided it was too late and too impolite to call her agent and complain about a missing "N". A faint mewing interrupted her thoughts and she looked down to meet the green gaze of Mr. Morris, a marmalade cat with three legs. She had discovered him in a Spokane back alley during the promotion tour for_Bride of the Moor,_and Mr. Morris was now her flatmate, her sole companion and her closest next of kin.
"YOU would know how to spell my name?"
Mr Morris mewed to make it clear he'd add any number of N's, if she'd only fill his feeding bowl. Dianne Walsh turned on the twin reading lamp next to her couch and re-checked the spelling of her name. The bulb flickered a few times, stroboscope illuminating a small pile of dust that graced the surface of the mahogany table on which it stood.
Bulb's about to blow.
Dianne tested the minute speck of dust with her fingertip before wiping it off with a muslin serviette. Furniture beetles, she thought. Mindless creatures that tunnel aimlessly through old wood to ruin its value. Once you discover the dust, the damage has already been done, the beetle has long flown, leaving behind only excrement and a black bore-hole. The mahogany stand was another antique bought at the Oakford market. At hundred and fifty bucks, the vendor had argued it was the bargain of a lifetime. Now, she wasn't so sure anymore.
Dianne was about to stub out her cigarette when a deafening explosion lifted her off her feet and flung her across the living room. She slammed into the wall with a sickening thud and slumped to the floor like a fleshy rag-doll, before she realized she was no longer in her favorite chair. Her ears rang with a hissing sound that fought to suffocate her thoughts. The room was dark and rapidly filling with a thick smoke that choked her lungs and stung her eyes. Only a thin wedge of light poured in from the kitchen to illuminate the charred remains of the desk where her lamp had once stood. Twisted scraps of brass littered the floor and decorated the walls where they had embedded themselves like a strange metallic installation. Dianne Walsh scrambled to flee, to escape into the kitchen, but as she attempted to crawl, her legs gave out and she sprawled helplessly on the floor. Hurt,_she thought. _Something wrong with my face. She put her hand to her cheek, but to her surprise, her fingers probed only raw flesh and teeth. Half her face had been blown clean off and her hand came away, smeared in blood and a gray, greasy substance. She realized with difficulty, her world had been reduced to monosyllables.
"No fair!" she rasped at Mr. Morris.
"There are two N's to my name."