Former Chief Warrant Officer Sam Blackman lost a leg in Iraq and emerged from the V.A. hospital in Asheville, NC, as a bitter civilian without a job or a future. But when he solved a series of local murders, Sam found new meaning for his life. Now he and his partner, Nakayla Robertson, are opening a detective agency. They have high hopes that the thriving mountain region will provide a steady stream of cases. Their first client, a quirky elderly woman in a retirement community, makes a strange request. She wants Sam to right a wrong she committed more than 70 years ago. Her victim: F. Scott Fitzgerald. Her crime: stealing a manuscript. Sam's task seems simple enough: retrieve the woman's lockbox and deliver the manuscript to Fitzgerald's heirs. But nothing is simple for Sam. The lockbox is sealed with a swastika, a symbol his client insists predates the Nazis and reflects a scene from The Great Gatsby. Then a security guard is killed and the lockbox disappears. Not only has this investigation triggered a murder, but Sam's final military case has followed him from Iraq and neither he nor anyone close to him is safe.... The Fitzgerald Ruse By Mark de Castrique Poisoned Pen Press Copyright © 2009 Mark de Castrique All right reserved. ISBN: 978-1-59058-629-7 Chapter One The night sky around Asheville can play tricks on the eye. Points of light might be stars, or they might be the sparkling illuminated windows of hundreds of houses dotting the ridge tops around the city. Making the distinction between the two isn't so difficult, except for those evenings when valley mist hovers like a sheer veil between earth and heaven. Or when an extra glass of wine creates a misty veil in the brain, blurring not only the horizon but also objects closer at hand. I focused on the sidewalk in front of me, taking each step with painstaking determination. Thunder sounded in the distance, signaling that the clear night sky would soon be changing. As the mountaineers say, "If you don't like the weather, wait fifteen minutes." Few people shared my walk, an activity I'd undertaken to clear my head. That had been a mistake. Walking on an artificial leg was difficult enough without carrying the effects of three-quarters of a bottle of pinot noir. My slight inebriation wasn't my fault. My business partner and girlfriend, Nakayla Robertson, hadn't held up her end of the festivities. We'd agreed to split everything fifty-fifty, but she claimed her single glass from the bottle had been enough. I, however, am not one to leave a task undone, polishing off both of our dinners and the wine. And so I found myself struggling along Patton Avenue, headed toward our office on Pack Square with two goals in mind: first, not to stumble and look like a drunken derelict; and second, to pick up the lockbox in our office that we were holding for a client. Not just any client. Our first and only client and the reason for tonight's celebration. I'm Sam Blackman, former Chief Warrant Officer, U.S. Army, and present and forever amputee. I'd lost a leg in Iraq, but found a life in the western North Carolina mountains. Now I'd planted both feet, although one was artificial, in my adopted community, and as a taxpaying business owner, I was on the way to becoming a model citizen. "Good evening, Sam. How are you doing tonight?" I looked diagonally across the intersection of Patton and Biltmore Avenue where a uniformed officer emerged from the shadows. He gave a slight wave, and though I didn't recognize him, I wasn't surprised that he knew my name. I was a familiar face around the Asheville Police Department—as a colleague, not as an inmate. I straightened and concentrated on maintaining flawless balance as I crossed to the corner opposite him. "Can't complain. Wouldn't do any good if I did." He laughed. "I hear you. Well, take it easy." He turned away, heading down the block to the department. Take it easy. Lugging the lockbox from the office to the parking deck would be anything but easy. I regretted telling Nakayla not to come with me. She'd parked her car near Tupelo Honey Café where we'd eaten, and when I'd declined a ride, she should have headed home. But Nakayla knew me too well, and there was a good chance she'd be waiting at the office. I'd be grateful to see her, even if it meant hearing her say "I told you so." I slid my shiny new key into the dead bolt of the building's main entrance and was surprised to find it unlocked. Nakayla probably had come back to help me. The security guard locked up every weeknight at seven and began rounds, which meant the tenants had to meet clients at the door for after-hours appointments. I expected that would happen frequently to Nakayla and me. Private investigators don't work bankers' hours, and clients often prefer to come under the cover of darkness. I left the door as I'd found it, figuring we'd lock up on our way out. The hardwood floor creaked as I stepped along t