The Black Fin Case

by A. T. Weaver

Black Fin - A.T. Weaver
Part of the Dragon Fire Mysteries series:
  • The Black Fin Case

 

For several months, Detective Greg Williams and his partner have been trying to catch the Black Fin gang. Their latest intelligence is good, so they go on their most risky raid yet. But things go horribly wrong. While recuperating from the wounds he received during the botched raid, Detective Williams and his captain realize there might be a leak in the Portland police department. When they begin digging, things get worse for Williams.

At the urging of his captain, Detective Williams heads into the mountains, hoping a little distance from the department will give the Black Fins and their police informants the opportunity to slip up. His working vacation soon takes turns he could never have imagined when he meets the reclusive writer, Ken Draig, next door, who turns out to be more than Greg ever imagined. But the Black Fins aren't about to let Detective Williams rest, they soon track him down, but with Ken's help, Greg manages to stay alive and fight back as forces he never knew existed reveal themselves to be working against him. Will Greg survive the Black Fins' ultimate plot?

Reviews:Lee Todd on Amazon.com wrote:

I voluntarily reviewed an Advance Reader Copy of this book.

This was a different twist on your typical shifter story and was entertaining to read. It is not big on sexual content with almost all scenes fading to black (I personally find this frustrating...but that's just me).

Overall it was an interesting story and gets a solid 4 stars from me.


The shrill beeping of the smoke alarm and Casey’s barking roused Greg from a deep sleep. It had felt so good to fall asleep in his own bed, it took a minute to realize something was happening.

He sat up and slung his legs over the side of the bed. "Casey, what’s wrong with you? It’s the middle of the night. Do you have to go out?" He patted the bed and Casey came trotting over to him, then turned and growled at the closed bedroom door.

Then he smelled it. Smoke.

His stomach clenched as he registered the "beep, beep, beep" of the smoke alarm. Flipping the bedside light on, he scrambled for his jeans.

Black tendrils seeped under the bedroom door.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

He jerked his jeans on, fumbling slightly with the stiffness of his leg. Then Greg slipped his feet halfway into his tennis shoes, grabbed his gun and wallet from the stand, pulled his grandmother’s quilt off the bed, and flung it over his shoulder. He wanted to save the quilt, it was the last thing he had of his grandmother. He wasn't about to leave it to a fire if he could help it.

He opened the window, picked up a chair, and smashed through the screen.

The sirens screamed louder as firetrucks turned the corner.

"Come here, Casey." He scooped the dog up in his arms and lifted him through the window. In his hurry, he was glad Casey didn't struggle against being picked up like he did sometimes. "It’s a good thing we’re on the ground floor."

A shot rang out as he dropped the dog onto the yard.

Casey yelped.

The night in the alley came rushing back. He couldn't stand the thought of losing Casey the way he'd lost Jackson. "Casey!" Greg pulled his gun from his waistband. "You son-of-a-bitch! You shot my dog!"

He emptied his clip in the direction of the shot, and then crawled out the window and dove toward the ground leaving his shoes behind.

Greg screamed as his knees buckled under him, and sharp pain erupted in his leg. He lay there on the ground, trying to get the strength to crawl over to Casey as the emergency lights cast their kaleidoscope of colors around the yard, making it hard to see.

A man ran toward him and he raised his empty gun.

The man stopped and held up his hands in the universal sign of surrender. "Don’t shoot! I’m a fireman."

Casey's whines carried through the pain as Greg tried to get up. "Someone shot my dog. Take care of him first."

"Just lie still." The fireman put a hand on his shoulder, trying to hold him still. "We got to him first. A paramedic is already checking him over."

Greg dropped his gun as the adrenaline faded and the pain in his knee dropped him into darkness.

About the Author

My real name is Julia Flowers. I am a 70+ year-old great-grandmother and live with my two cats, Cleopatra (who is 15 years old) and Kiyah the devil cat (who is not quite 2), in downtown Kansas City, MO. I either tell people I live next door to the church with the gold dome, or I live at the northwest corner of Bartle Hall. I have four children, nine blood grandkids, two extra, and one great-grandson.

Two questions I am often asked are:

1. Why a pen name and where did it come from?

When I began writing at the age of 60, I didn’t want my kids to be embarrassed by their friends knowing their mother wrote gay fiction, so I decided to make up a pen name. When I got my first computer and set up an email account I had a hard time finding a username that wasn’t already taken. I’d been a member of the Society for Creative Anachronism for several years, and my SCA name is Alisaundre Muir, and I dye, spin, and weave wool. Alix is a nickname for Alisaundre and I came up with alixtheweaver. Thinking about a pen name, I thought, ‘Weaver is a good last name’, and so I became A(for Alix) T(for the) Weaver.

2. Why would a straight great-grandmother write gay fiction?

When I was growing up, the word gay meant happy and carefree and homosexuals were called queer or ‘one-of-those’. However, I never heard those terms or knew what they meant until I was married and a mother. When two men moved in down the street from us in St. Charles, MO, I didn’t think anything about it until my then husband told me they were ‘queers’. I didn’t know what he meant.
Later on, after moving back to Kansas City in the late 1960s, two men moved across the street from us. Again, I thought nothing about it. One was an actor, and we went to several of his plays. I was later to learn that one of them was the driving force behind the gay movement in Kansas City. Of course, at the time I knew nothing at all about the LGBT Community.

In 2003, there was a TV show on Bravo called Boy Meets Boy. Having watched The Bachelor and Bachelorette and being totally disgusted, I decided it couldn’t be any worse and watched. In the middle of the show, one of the ‘contestants’ set up a Yahoo group for fans and I joined. I have to admit, my record with guessing who was gay and who was straight wasn’t all that good.

At the peak, there were over 3,000 members of the group. After the show as over, several of us continued to ‘talk’ daily. These men educated me as to the inequalities suffered by the LGBT community, and started me reading gay literature and watching movies. On a trip to see my mother in Turlock, CA, I visited one of the men in San Francisco who lived just up the street from the Castro. As he showed me around, we stopped in front of what was once Harvey Milk’s camera store. My question, “Who was Harvey Milk?” started my education into Gay history. When I mentioned I’d like to try writing. His response was, “I’d like to read a book where the boy gets the boy and they ride off into the sunset together.” I said, “I can do that.” This was in 2003 – before Brokeback Mountain, and before the advent of gay erotica.

I was unable to find a publisher who would even read my story and paid $500 to have it published. Since then, I use self-publishing. My first few books were mildly erotic, but since, I have chosen to put the sex behind the bedroom door.

I’ll never make even a little money, but if I can move you in some way, whether you laugh or cry, love it or hate it, I’ve accomplished what I aim for.

Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self. Cyril Connolly (1903 - 1974)


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