Norman drove towards his home town of Sycamore, Missouri. It was about sunup on a Sunday. He had been driving for many hours.
Tag: Mondays Are Murder
After a few weeks the VW bug I drove, which I parked at night out by the gravel road a third of a mile from my house in the woods, was burgled.
The house had been vacant for a long time, the realtor told me, but she wasn’t sure why.
Detective Almodovar, half Polish, half Puerto Rican, sits in the playground at the corner of Borinquen Plaza and Rodney Street.
Today, Ultras threw rocks and policemen fled. Tonight, Ivana is still standing, the breeze tickling her skin.
She had been with him since he was a young ensign on his first leave in Manila . . .
It must have been a gunshot. I’d know the sound of a .45 anywhere.
Joe hesitated, then strode into the darkness of the bar. In the seconds it took for his eyes to adjust he could tell he would have the place virtually to himself for a while.
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