It was a typical August night in Tokyo when each breath felt like you were sucking cotton into your lungs. . .
Tag: Mondays Are Murder
At eleven o’clock on a Wednesday night, a man and a woman checked into cabin number 17 at Venice Marina under the false names of David and Connie Monroe. . .
Old Mr. Willman’s head twitched, and with some difficulty he pointed an arthritic finger at the gigantic oak tree with the peeling bark. . .
They found Clarette on her porch that morning, a wax figure in her robe, barefoot and clutching a nearly spent half-pint of brandy. . .
The orange line. Change to the red line. They’re there. Sitting, standing, giving me the quick, disdain laced glances reserved for work booted laborers with tormented hands. . .
When you grow up in Springfield, Illinois, you’ve heard the stories about Paul Powell and the concealed cash stash. . .
Detective Harry Crenshaw glanced at the pamphlet one more time. . .
I lived on a farm on Falls Road in those days. . .