The most daring and original hero in crime fiction… in a debut novel that’s a relentless, pure-adrenaline rush. It’s the mid-1980s. Crime in Los Angeles is running rampant. When the law can’t help you, there is one man who can: Alexander L’Hiboux, whose ability to sleep was destroyed in the ghastly tragedy that cost him his family. Now he’s justice-for-hire, prowling the streets and solving crimes with deadly finality. A desperate, grief-stricken shipping magnate hires The Owl to find the scum who brutalized his daughter…a quest that uncovers a shocking conspiracy that will rock the city. “Mike Hammer is a wimp compared to The Owl,” Bill Crider, author of Outrage at Blanco and the bestselling Sheriff Dan Rhoades mysteries Author of the Owl Series Bob Forward has at various times been a professional writer, artist, director, producer, and pyrotechnician. Sometimes all of them at once. Much of his work has been in Children's Television, where he quickly established a reputation for creative and entertaining mayhem. He has written novels, scripts, and comic books, story-edited, directed and produced on a number of animated series, and runs a pyrotechnic special effects business on the side. He greatly enjoys creating and developing intriguing new characters and concepts, developing them into dynamic and compelling relationships, and then blowing them up. He tends to have noisy dreams. The Owl By Bob Forward Brash Books, LLC Copyright © 2014 Bob Forward All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-941298-05-3 CHAPTER 1 Four a.m. it was cold, but not too bad. Just chill enough for the sewer manholes to emit ghostlike wraiths of steam in the dead light from the street lamps. I breathed through clenched teeth, and the faint whistle of air resonated lonely and forlorn against the dim buildings that lined the street. I was in East Central Los Angeles, a dark and smelly area filled mainly with warehouses and other storage buildings. The only real life here was a few blocks away, in a semi-punk bar called Dodo. I had just left there. It was way past the legal closing time, but places like Dodo are kind of lax that way. Places that stay open past midnight get my business. I'm usually looking for something to do during normal sleeping hours — because, to put it bluntly, I am not normal. I don't sleep, see. Ever. My name's L'Hiboux. Translated from the French, that means the Owl — a poetic coincidence that practically seems ordained. It's my real name, though there isn't a drop of French blood in my veins. Mostly I'm American Indian, Jamaican, and Irish; a lucky combination because it means I never have to shave. For me, that's particularly fortunate. I live on the streets of Los Angeles. No home. No car. No possessions other than those I carry in my pockets. You see, a home can be watched; a car can be bombed — and the Owl is wanted dead by many people. I stay alive because I can never be found. And because I stay alive, other people do not. Technically, I guess you could call me a private detective. But I have no legal standing as such, since I have no license and make no arrests. But I've never left a case unsolved — and there have been a lot of cases. Enough to fill a cemetery. I wasn't counting up my score just then, since I was too busy clenching my teeth. It was definitely chilly. Early spring in Los Angeles; it's what you would expect. Cold, but not enough to make your teeth chatter or your scalp twitch. So it wasn't the cold that was making me grind my jaws. And I like to think that it wasn't fear either. Call it frustrated professional pride — I wasn't used to letting someone else get the drop on me. He was talking again. His initial opening line had been: "Freeze, mister!" and I had done just that. I hadn't seen him, and before that line, I hadn't heard, smelled, or otherwise sensed the sonofabitch. But right after that first cheery greeting, I definitely did hear something — the snickering click of a cocked hand cannon. He was behind me, and I didn't turn around. "The wallet, mister. Drop the wallet and split. Drop it and split, man! I don't want to hurt you." Yeah, right. That's why he carried a gun instead of something dangerous, right? Like as not pointed right at the back of my head. And if his fingers were shaking as much as his voice, I could accidentally get myself a lead lobotomy no matter how sweet I was. I decided not to be sweet. "My name's L'Hiboux," I said without moving. Hey, my voice was so calm, I almost relaxed myself. "Mean anything to you?" My eyes were panning the street for signs of life. Not a damn soul. Nothing in front of me but dark buildings and dim streetlights. The lamps cast an ugly, hazy, piss-yellow wash of light over anything that wasn't too dirty to reflect it. Not even a wino anywhere in front of me. And behind, a dark alley and cold death ... "Also known as the Owl." "Hey, just shut the fuck up, mister!" I could see the name hadn't impressed him overmuch. "Drop th