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  At the most basic level, Milo was ashamed by the reaction of some in the business. He thought it despicable that anyone should find entertainment value in the death of a fellow human being, no matter who the victim was. It was also a sad commentary that he could think of twenty people off the top of his head who themselves wouldn’t have minded taking a potshot at the two victims.

  Reading some of the vindictive comments on different blogs concerning the two murder victims and how they might have deserved everything they got, made Milo fear for the very future of humanity. Had we really grown so petty and heartless as to enjoy the suffering of others? Had it really come to that?

  The new victim, Edgar Price, aka BooksOnWheels, was a name not unfamiliar to Milo, although he didn’t follow his reviews as some who enjoyed seeing writers castigated in public did. Milo believed a reviewer had the right to say anything he wanted. It was Milo’s opinion that once a book was released, it was on its own, to either sink or swim by its own merits. At the same time, he believed a writer had the right to tell a story the way he wanted, without being dragged over the coals for the editorial choices he made in the writing. Even when true technical missteps were exposed—missteps such as mundane plot devices, banal writing, flawed grammar, and incompetent editing—Milo saw no reason for a reviewer to ever chastise a writer to the point of humiliation. The sole exception was plagiarism. In Milo’s eyes, that was an author’s one unforgivable sin, and the offender should be keelhauled for it.

  For plagiarists, Milo had no sympathy at all. Still, he didn’t wish them dead. Exactly.

  On this Monday morning, Milo sat at his desk with his Work in Progress scrolled out on the computer screen in front of him. He had written a few paragraphs, but his attention kept wandering. Between the murders and the evening he had spent with Logan Hunter, his thoughts were swirling dizzily in a sort of vortex. Revenge or karma. Right or wrong. And the more pressing question that kept invading his senses—romance or friendship? Which should he shoot for?

  Where Logan Hunter was concerned, that was the $64,000 question, and Milo knew it.

  Milo gave his head a shake and glanced at the calendar on his office wall. After the delightful evening they spent in Seaport Village getting to know each other, Milo had received a call from Logan explaining he would be out of town for a couple of days on business, but wondered if Milo would like to get together again on his return. Milo had said yes, hastily, emphatically. He hadn’t even needed to think about it. Logan seemed to enjoy Milo’s unhesitating response. Even his voice had mellowed when he said, “I really enjoyed spending time with you, Milo.”

  “And I with you,” Milo answered, a little breathlessly. And it was true. He had. Even if the evening had ended with only a good-night kiss at Logan’s door, it was still a hell of a night.

  Logan cleared his throat, as if unsure of what he was about to say. “It’s been a long time since I….”

  Milo waited for the end of the sentence, but it never came. Finally he asked, “Yes? It’s been a long time since you what, Logan?”

  “Nothing,” Logan sighed. Then he gave a chuckle as if laughing at himself, which confused Milo even more. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

  “Good enough,” Milo said and softly ended the call.

  Now, three days later, feeling lonesome and forgotten, Milo stared back at the newspaper clipping lying on his desk. He wasn’t sure where Logan had gone on his business trip, but he hoped he was keeping a weather eye out for serial killers. Not that Logan wrote the sort of reviews that led—that might have led—to the murder of Grace Connor and poor old Edgar Price. Logan treated writers and their works with respect. As an added bonus, Logan was neither an overweight woman with heart disease nor a wheelchair-bound octogenarian. In fact, of all the people Milo knew in the community, Logan Hunter was probably the least likely to attract the fury of a killer and the most physically capable of defending himself if he did.

  Milo’s gaze slid to the phone for the twentieth time. Jesus, he wished Logan would call.

  At that moment, much to Milo’s surprise, the phone rang. It was the landline, not his cell. Spanky gave a soft growl under the desk. The ringer had woken him up. Old dogs can be a wee bit protective of their naps.

  Startled both by the dog and the call—Milo almost never used his landline—he dug his bare toes into Spanky’s coat to calm him down and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  A booming, raspy voice came over the line with an unmistakable New York accent. Queens? Brooklyn? The Bronx? “Is this Milo Cook?”

  “Speaking,” Milo said, more confused than ever. “How can I help you?”

  “This is Detective Robert Carlisle of the New York City Police Department. I’d like to take a couple of minutes of your time, if you don’t mind. Can you speak freely with me?”

  Milo assumed the detective was asking if he was alone and could talk. “Yes, sir. I’m free to talk.” He thought he heard chewing sounds and the squeak of a desk chair. Maybe the detective was propping his feet up on his desk and scarfing down a donut? Could life really be that clichéd?

  There followed an unmistakable slurp of what was presumably coffee, then another squeak and a thump. Apparently the detective had decided to forgo his sugar fix so he could sit up straight and concentrate on the call.

  “I understand, sir, that you were friends with Grace Connor.”

  “Yes,” Milo said, suddenly not so confused by the call. This had to do with Grace. He should have known. “I knew her. We weren’t exactly friends, but she was married to a friend of mine. Lillian Damons.”

  “Yes, that’s why I’m calling. Miss Damons gave your name as a contact.”

  “Have you discovered who killed her?” Milo asked.

  “Uh, no. And I think this will go faster if I’m the one who asks the questions. Would that be all right with you?”

  Milo grunted. He didn’t appreciate the sarcasm, but he supposed the guy had a point. “Sorry, sir. Yes. Please go ahead.”

  “When was the last time you saw Miss Connor?”

  Milo thought about it. “Lord, it must be almost a year. I did a book show in Kansas City, where Grace and Lillian lived. Still do, in fact. Well, Lillian does,” Milo awkwardly amended.

  The detective mumbled something to himself, then cleared his throat and said, “I understand Grace Connor wasn’t exactly popular in her field.”

  Milo sighed. “If that’s a question, I guess I’d have to say you’re right. Her reviews could be harsh. Still, she had a substantial following of readers who thought she told it like it was.”

  “And you?”

  “I try never to read reviews. Mine or anyone else’s.” Milo knew this wasn’t exactly true. All writers read reviews whether they admit it or not. Sometimes the damn things were inescapable.

  “But you were aware of her reputation,” the detective prodded.

  Reluctantly, Milo admitted, “Yes. I was aware of her reputation.”

  “Have you heard anyone make threats against her person for the things she wrote in her reviews?”

  “No. Of course not. Like I said, I’m a close friend of Lillian’s. I would never have let anyone say anything bad about her wife in front of me.”

  “Would you have reported it if you had?”

  Milo considered this. He was also beginning to get a little mad. “Detective, if you mean would I have reported a threat against Grace after learning Grace had been murdered, of course I would. While I might not have been in love with the woman, I do love and respect her partner.”

  “I see. One more question and we’ll be finished. Did you know or had you heard of Edgar Price? On his book blog he called himself BooksOnWheels, a reference to being stuck in a wheelchair, I presume. He was a book reviewer who worked and resided in Indiana.”

  “No, sir, I didn’t know him. Yes, sir, I had heard of him. Like Grace, among my fellow writers he wasn’t the most popular of reviewers, if you really want to call him a reviewer. He was mor
e of a troll, in my opinion. Cruising around the internet, spouting angry diatribes, hiding behind the anonymity the internet offers. And no, before you ask, I heard no one make threats against his person, nor do I know anyone who might have wanted him dead.” Milo hesitated before asking, “Do you really think the murders are connected? That the killer is a wounded author who had an axe to grind because he didn’t like the reviews he was getting from these two reviewers?”

  For the first time, Detective Carlisle chuckled. “You sound skeptical. You don’t think that’s possible?”

  “Well, it seems kind of far-fetched. I don’t think I’d use it as a plot device in a book. Nor do I think most authors are quite as sensitive as that would seem to imply.”

  The detective’s chuckle died as quickly as it came. “I hate to tell you this, Mr. Cook, but real life isn’t a novel. I’ve seen far more ridiculous motives for murder. And yes, to answer your question. Going through a backlog of both victims’ reviews, I think there’s a pretty good argument for blaming those reviews for their killings. Neither Miss Connor nor Mr. Price was particularly subtle with their criticisms. I’ll bet they wounded a great many egos over the years. They may even have ruined more than a few writing careers while they were at it.”

  The detective gave a rattling cough that sounded like it came all the way up from the soles of his feet. Milo imagined a cigarette dangling from his lips and a dried-up pair of diseased lungs withering away inside his chest. “Now then, I’m sorry I took up so much of your time, and I’m sorry if I offended you, but this is a homicide investigation. Uncomfortable questions need to be asked. If you think of anything, my number here in Manhattan is 212-555-1952. You can call me day or night. By the way, young man. I enjoyed your last book.”

  Milo couldn’t have been more surprised if the detective had blown him a kiss over the phone. “Really? You mean you read it? Well, uh, thanks. I hope you find the killer, sir.”

  Detective Carlisle offered up a rather uncharitable grunt, which didn’t sound particularly hopeful. “Yeah. So do I.”

  And with that, he was gone.

  Milo hung up the phone, thinking the NYPD must really be stuck if they’d taken to calling acquaintances of their murder victims all the way across country.

  For the first time, Milo feared Grace’s murder—and maybe even that of Edgar Price—would never be solved at all.

  Rather than getting mired down in that depressing possibility, Milo turned his attention back to Logan Hunter. That was a far, far happier place for his thoughts to dwell.

  An hour later his phone rang again, and this time the call had nothing to do with murder.

  Milo froze in his chair at the sound of a familiar voice competing with a loudspeaker announcing arrivals at Gate 12A, and even farther in the background, the roar of a jetliner climbing into the sky.

  “I’m back in town. When can I see you?”

  “When did you get in?” Milo asked, all too aware that his surprised heart had just done a somersault.

  With a laugh, Logan said, “About twenty-seven seconds ago.”

  With a grunt of impatience, Milo asked, “How come you waited so long to call?”

  “I LOVE your house,” Logan said. He was standing on Milo’s doorstep, still pulling his finger back from the doorbell since Milo had answered the door before Logan even finished ringing.

  Milo stared out at him. His capacity for forming sentences in his brain and shooting them down a string of neurons to his mouth, where they could be uttered out loud like those of a normal human being, seemed to have taken a holiday. All he could do was ogle Logan standing there in front of him, looking as handsome and towering and fine as any man he had ever seen in his life. He could feel a flush rising to his cheeks and a slight tremor in his knees. What was he, fifteen?

  “Thanks,” Milo finally managed to mumble. He stepped aside to usher Logan inside. As he walked past, Milo caught the clean scents of Sea Breeze and Ivory soap. He thought he had never smelled anything more alluring.

  He closed the door behind them and turned to find Logan facing him. Without thinking, Milo walked into Logan’s arms. A tremor stampeded through him when Logan wrapped Milo in a gentle embrace. Milo felt Logan’s breath stirring his hair, and that sent a second shiver shuddering through him. For the briefest of moments, while he rested his cheek against Logan’s shoulder and laid his hands across Logan’s broad back to return the embrace, he thought he heard the gentle thunder of Logan’s heart, but he wasn’t sure. It might have been his own.

  They pulled apart as quickly as they had come together. Once again Milo was surprised to find himself totally at ease in Logan’s presence. Not so much as a whiff of shyness darkened his thoughts or dimmed his perceptions, as so often happened when he was in the presence of someone who was knockout gorgeous. Or worse yet, someone he was beginning to care about.

  Stepping back, he smiled, and Logan returned it with a cryptic little smile of his own. “I’ve missed you,” Milo said, before he could stop himself.

  Logan glanced down at his own feet for a second before lifting his eyes back to Milo’s face. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ve missed you too.”

  “Was your trip all right? Make good connections? Didn’t get snowed in in Buffalo Balls, Idaho, or some equally horrible third-world cesspool?”

  Logan’s smile widened. “Nope. Everything went like clockwork. And Buffalo Balls is actually quite lovely.”

  “No kidding. I’ll have to remember it next time I book a vacation.”

  “Do.”

  Milo laughed. “Where were you really?”

  “New York City. An employees’ seminar for the ad company I told you I worked for. A total waste of time, as it turned out. Could have been handled with a conference call and a couple of YouTube lectures. At least they paid for the airline tickets, so I’m not out anything.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re back.”

  “Me too. I hated the cold. California weather has spoiled me for life, I think. On the bright side, I did get a couple of Gray’s Papaya kraut dogs, so the trip wasn’t a total waste.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Milo grinned. “Now hopefully you’ll never leave again.”

  Surprised to hear the words he had just uttered, Milo clapped his mouth shut before he said anything else equally stupid. Or true.

  Logan batted dark lashes. His hazel eyes, flecked with cinnamon, pored over Milo’s face as if memorizing every feature, every nuance. Not for the first time, Milo noticed that when Logan smiled a certain way, it formed a tiny dimple in one cheek. As if the guy wasn’t sexy enough already.

  “You’re right,” Logan said softly. “Hopefully I won’t. Leave again, I mean.”

  Milo gave himself a shake. “Christ, where are my manners? Come on. I thought we’d sit by the pool.”

  “Wow. You have a pool?”

  Milo shrugged. “Yeah, it came with the house.”

  He took Logan’s hand and led him across the living room, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. He paused to snag a couple of beers from the fridge, then led Logan onward through a sliding glass door that opened up to the patio out back.

  The patio wasn’t large, but it was nicely laid out with a couple of short palm trees, a small oval pool with handrailed steps leading into the water at one end, and a couple of chaise lounges parked beside a brick fireplace used for cookouts, which Milo had never once fired up. He wasn’t much on cooking, be it cooking out or cooking in. An eight-foot plank fence encircled the patio for privacy. Milo had hung succulents and orchids in mossy baskets along the fence, interspersed with occasional bright red hummingbird feeders. There were hummingbirds and butterflies everywhere.

  Logan stood spellbound, clearly impressed. “This is gorgeous.” He strode to the edge of the pool and knelt down to trail his fingers through the water. “It’s warm,” he said, and Milo nodded. Logan stood again, and Milo handed him one of the beers while motioning to a chair. They made themselves comfortable, splay
ing their legs out on the lounges and sipping contentedly at their drinks. Milo kicked off his shoes, so Logan did too.

  “If you get hungry, we’ll order a pizza,” Milo offered.

  Logan laughed. “Good enough. I don’t cook much either.”

  “Do you swim?” Milo asked.

  “Yeah, but I didn’t bring my trunks.”

  Milo took a long pull from his beer while wiggling his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. “Well, there are two solutions to that problem. One, you can swim naked, or two, I can loan you a pair of Bryce’s old swimming trunks. I think he left a couple behind when he split. He was about your size, so they’d probably fit.”

  Logan laughed. “Perhaps the second option would be best.”

  Milo gave a horrendously exaggerated pout and said, “I was afraid you’d say that.” Then he hopped off the chaise and said with a wicked leer in his eye, “Come on. Let’s get comfortable.”

  Logan spent about two seconds looking wary, then seemed to decide, fuck it, what do I have to lose? With a laugh, he followed Milo back into the house, peeling his socks off as he went.

  Milo’s first glimpse of Logan in nothing but Bryce’s swimming trunks was enough to ratchet his blood pressure up about thirty points. The fact that the trunks were actually too large and barely clung to Logan’s narrow hips, cranked it up even higher.

  Bronze-skinned, with lean muscular legs peppered with dark hair, Logan was a knockout. Beneath broad shoulders, his finely sculpted chest was shadowed by a sprinkling of hair that meandered from one copper nipple to the other, then trailed downward in a narrow swath to Logan’s belly button, where it flared out again. By the time the tangled mass reached the waistband of Bryce’s swimming trunks, and disappeared beneath it, Milo was left all but brainless by a sudden infusion of endorphins that seemed to knock out his circuit boards left and right, like somebody had strafed them with a machine gun.