Millstone - Novel 02

The Case of Pure Blue Murder

All Rights Reserved © 2021, Rick Haydn Horst

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

IMPORTANT:

Be sure to read the 16 chapters of my the first novel in this series:

Millstone Novel 1

before you read this one!

PREFACE

Dear Reader,

At the time of Tucker's name change, Max gifted him a blank book, thinking that a new name and new life working for us at Millstone & Roche might elicit a desire to create a journal of his experiences. That gift resulted in Tucker's eventual inspiration for this first of our collaborative endeavors, which I embraced from the moment he mentioned it. I have crafted this narrative from five sources, three usual ones: the case files of Millstone & Roche Investigations, as well as the memories of Max and myself. However, this also includes as a source, the personal journals of Tucker, our close friend and business partner, and from the long conversations that I have had with Tucker for this text. As his complex personal life had grown closely intertwined with ours, we came to believe that he needed a voice, and importantly, he often played an instrumental part in helping solve cases, so I think that readers will agree that his input and perspective will add value. I have labeled each of the pertinent sections written by Tucker from his point of view as

Tucker's Journal

, after which the sections written by me in my perspective, I've labeled

Millstone's Sources

.

Sincerely,

Howard Ellis Millstone

PROLOGUE

Millstone's Sources

Detective Sergeant Wade Edgerton asked us, "How would you fellas like to get involved with a case of blue murder?"

"

A case of blue murder

," that's exactly what he said. One might think that's how the big cases usually start, but it's not always so obvious. Given my occupation as a private investigator who sometimes consulted for the Franklin Metropolitan Police Department, however, one would be forgiven for assuming that it would and what the detective meant when he used that phrase during his call.

We had worked late the previous evening on the Gerhardt Last case, and we would speak to our client that day during his lunch break at one o'clock. After Tucker, our friend and employee, left to take possession of his new Jeep the next morning, my partner Max and I were chatting about the case when the call came at 10:30 a.m. When Edgerton used that odd phrase, we glanced at one another our brows drawn together in confusion as a typical statement would concern someone "screaming" blue murder.

"Has someone come down with a case of blue murder?" asked Max. As a former registered nurse, he gravitated toward medical thinking.

The detective laughed. "Yeah, and given the condition of the patient, it was terminal. I have an unusual situation here involving a stake."

"Steak...like a porterhouse?" I asked. "Some of those are up to two and a half pounds, ya know. What a clever and delicious way to bump someone off."

"I can think of worse last-meals," said Max.

"Let's just say a

stake

is at the

heart

of the matter," he said, "and I would like you two to have a look."

"Alright," I said. "Where are you?"

He texted me an address on Tranquility Lane where we would find the entrance to a cemetery in an area of Franklin called Gothwick. He said we couldn't miss it.

Police detectives seeking my involvement in their cases hadn't always been my life. I worked as an ordinary private investigator back east, but after a series of life changes, both me and my world had a drastic alteration.

My mother and I always had a good relationship, but my father's death struck me with several profound losses. In one blow, my father, my mentor, and my best friend, the one person in this world who understood me, had vanished from my life. No one could replace him. I knew he couldn't stick around forever, and on occasion, he would remind me of that fact, just in case his mortality somehow slipped my mind. No matter what, however, so long as he lived, I refused to take a few of those eggs out of that singular, all-important basket.

My parents died within twelve weeks of one another, and apart from a few friends that I had lost touch with years prior and a handful of acquaintances, I had no one of significance in my life. I felt like I was walking around in a daze for months. When I left Nashville and returned to New York, I began going through the motions of life, throwing myself into my work; it just seemed like the thing to do.

During that time, I had accepted a case from a woman who suspected her husband was cheating, and she wanted to know the truth of it. In the aftermath of that case, it became apparent that neither of us knew her husband, Lev Stepanov, was a member of the Bratva, the Russian mob. I saw him kill a guy in an alley and the dumpster into which he shoved his body. I captured one clear, incriminating photo of it. Afterward, there came the safe house, the trial, the witness protection, the rearranged face, the age reassignment (38 instead of 40), my new name (Howard Ellis Millstone), and a new apartment on the west coast in Franklin, a city renowned for its non-conformity and maligned by bigots the world over, most of whom were religious and political hypocrites.

When I became a private investigator, I hadn't sought to get mixed up in the heavy stuff. I wanted to find a few missing people, catch a few cheating spouses, and work a lot of insurance cases; I expected to see nothing else. Many investigators work their entire careers with no involvement in a single murder. Up to that point, professionally, I'd had cases that involved a total of six murders, three of which came from the Tommy Haines case.

Much had happened following the closure of that case, important things like our first client Winter, and the Franklin Metropolitan Police Department (with whom I signed a consultation contract) had paid us for our work on that case. We had set up the necessary electronics to run the agency from our home at the Minotaur; we acquired equipment for work; Max crafted our business logo with the help of a graphic artist, so we could do some advertising, and we purchased our vehicle.

When you're a private investigator, you learn that cases sometimes begin in subtle and strange ways. I couldn't convey the full picture of this case of blue murder from the point of Wade's phone call that morning, so let's back up a bit to the previous evening, and the reason for that will reveal itself.

CHAPTER ONE

Millstone's Sources

That Friday evening of July 12th--just before sunset--Max and I had had dinner for the second time that week at The Daily Catch near the bay. As we walked along the waterfront enjoying the salty air, I held my arm around my beautiful Golden Bear, and he held my hand at his shoulder to keep it there.

In retrospect, I began recognizing my level of unhappiness while living in Nashville and New York. I could easily find sexual partners, that wasn't the issue, but no one would stick around. I suppose one gets resigned to the loneliness and fills any spare time with other things like even more work or hobbies.

Of course, as fulfilling as my relationship with Max was, our location played an enormous part. Franklin was special, and it hadn't taken long to discover how lucky living there made me. In Franklin, Max and I could go anywhere with my arm around him--just as I had that evening--and no one would think anything of it. But more than that, we could live, not just hoping, but knowing that would be the case, and knowing that kind of inclusivity existed there in the collective understanding of what constituted "normal" made all the difference in the world. Most straight people in the outside world take that automatic acceptance for granted; they couldn't imagine living without it because most of them wouldn't recognize it as a privilege. Walking there that night, my arm around Max, however, I sensed a deeper reason that Franklin was created, to give people like us the luxury of taking for granted that we wouldn't experience anything from microaggressions to a baseball bat to the back of the head simply for openly existing as the gay couple we were. And upon realizing that, I hugged my beautiful man, silently thanking Ivy Ridgewood, the main founder of Franklin as it stood, for making that possible.

That evening, we had made an early night of it, lying in bed about nine. I thought we would just sleep but Max, using gentle strokes of his fingers on the underside of my cock, gave me an erection. Afterward, he broke out the silicone lube, propped me against the headboard, and my horny Honey Bear, his muscles like steel cables covered in pale skin and thick golden fur, proceeded to impale himself upon me. I hadn't minded, of course; he would forever have my permission to ride me whenever and wherever he liked.

Our new, supposedly unbreakable bed had a metal canopy intended for bondage or anything else one's imagination could think to use the loops and eyelets and beams it had. Earlier in the day, Max installed some thick cotton rope from the canopy to pull himself up, to assist in our amorous activities. With his strength and endurance, he could use it to help fuck himself on my dong for quite a while. With the fun he was having, I knew I could count on him employing that rope for some time to come. For an hour, he had treated himself to two long fucks--starting on a third--using my pelvis like a bouncy ball with a handle on it. At the end of that hour, I sat relatively upright in the shadows of the indirect light from the outside streetlamp with Max on my lap and his cum dripping down my face, adding to the rest that he had plastered across my beard and the hair of my torso.

I touched Max's shadowy form as he rode my cock trapped deep inside his buttery hole, and it hadn't mattered that I needed to pee, I wouldn't stop him. I recalled his face on other occasions reflecting the pleasure he felt, so I welcomed his every attempt to candy-coat me with cum for as long as he liked. I expected that once he had his fill, I could then clean it off, wash my cock in our newly installed Gentleman's Lave, pee, and we would return to our nightly scheduled slumber.

Max continued fucking himself on me, and I was on the verge of breeding him a second time when a knock came upon our door just as Max added several volleys of cum to my face and chest. However, hearing the knock distracted us, Max stopped, and my ability to cum disappeared. It wouldn't matter if the world were crumbling around one's feet, when that close to cumming, an interruption would give any man a surly disposition. We sat still in the darkness catching our breath as the knock sounded again.

I whispered in contempt, "Some interloping fucker has just ruined my orgasm."

"I'm sorry," said Max. "It could be important; what do you want to do?"

"It could also be nothing. I'm like stone; I don't want to get up."

When we heard the door being unlatched, we both said, "It's Tucker."

The instant it opened, I said aloud, "Tucker, what the hell do you want?"

Since he heard my voice, he flipped on the overhead main lighting and came around the partition, expecting to find us merely awakened from sleep. I barely had the chance to say, "No, don't turn on the-" before he stood there in t-shirt and jeans, travel mug in hand, gawping at us.

"Oh my god, I am so sorry."

Max, fully lanced on my lap, tried not to laugh, as the light revealed what he had done to my face that evening.

I could feel Max's cum running down my cheeks, dripping from my forehead and clinging to my beard. I licked it from my lips, so I could speak properly. "We gave you that key in case you needed to get any equipment when we're away from home. I'll have you know that you have robbed me of my orgasm! So, you better have a good explanation for tonight's coitus interruptus or you're fucking fired! What do you want?"

"I apologize, but I texted and called each of you. I see now why you ignored it."

"My phone's on Do Not Disturb," I said.

"Uh-oh," said Max, "so is mine. We probably should set a few exceptions for that."

"We have a client," said Tucker.

Max's brows lowered and drew together. "What time is it?" He searched for our bedside clock.

Tucker checked his phone. "It's 10:15."

I tapped Max on the chest. "I now spot the flaw in working from home. There's no glass door on which to hang our 'Sorry, we're closed and fucking' sign."

"Do you want this client or not?" asked Tucker.

"Well, why would they contact you?" I asked.

"Who is it?" asked Max.

"It's our barber, Johann. He didn't have the business number (not that you would have answered it); he only had mine. Look, this is time sensitive. If you want the job, I'll fill you in while you get ready. If not, I'll hit the light on the way out, and you can continue your coitus."

Of course, we wanted the client, so Tucker began drinking the coffee he brought with him to stave off his usual bedtime tiredness, and he gave us the entire story as we cleaned up. Afterward, I apologized to Tucker for my attitude (he admitted he would have felt the same under similar circumstances), and I told him that he had done the right thing.

Johann Last, one of the barbers at The Strop Tonsorium, contacted Tucker, seeking to hire us. His 18-year-old brother Gerhardt had come to Franklin from their hometown of Germantown, Pennsylvania a day prior and would stay with him temporarily. According to Johann, his brother hadn't seemed like himself at all, and that concerned him. He said that he left the house the night he arrived to meet someone, and he knew he would leave again that evening because he mentioned something about a nightclub, and Johann noticed him setting out some club clothes. Johann hired us to find out specifically what he was doing, and who he was meeting because it worried him.

To me, it sounded like he was overreacting, but I texted Johann and told him we would take his case. I informed him of our daily rates, and he agreed.

After cleaning up, in preparation for the case, Max and I stood staring into our open wardrobe. "So, what does one wear to a stakeout?" he asked. "Shall we go in all black with a stocking cap and our faces covered in grease paint?"

"We're not cat burglars, Max." I began digging into the clothing, laughing to myself. "We're not going behind enemy lines."

He smiled. "Well, I was a nurse; what would I know of these things?"

I pulled out a couple of the suits that we had ordered from the tailor. "These look good."

"What's with the suits?" asked Tucker.

"Just knowing where Gerhardt's going isn't enough, if he goes into a club, we'll have to follow him."

"Well, he's eighteen; most likely, he wouldn't wear a suit. He'll wear what other people his age wears."

"And these days, that would be..."

"Something sleazy, perhaps?" asked Max.

"Maybe. It would depend on where he went. Most clubs don't want to deal with the extra precautions necessary to allow 18-year-olds...not without a fake ID. And if he has one of those, he could go anywhere." He downed the remainder of his coffee.

"Let's assume for the moment he has no fake ID," I said.

"Someone could get away with wearing something hot, up to the point of sleaze, in any of those clubs. Overtly sleazy would be too much for some, something less hot or a suit would be too stuffy for others. But in most of those places, it wouldn't matter what the two of you wear, you'll stick out like hawks in a chicken house anyway."

"Well, that's where you come in, so let's do this... We'll wear the suits, and you change into something you deem more appropriate rather than regular street clothes. This way, we've covered all contingencies."

Tucker's Journal

I had stayed with Wade Edgerton for over a week, and we had yet to have any form of sex. I know I said that I would give him all the time he needed but seeing him walk around his quarters wearing his well-fitting Franklin Coppers t-shirts and a tight pair of light gray cotton shorts frustrated the hell out of me. The distraction of every eye-catching shift in the contours left by his unencumbered fun-gear was almost more than I could bear. However, I fashioned myself into Mister Good-Guy with the chameleonic ease that I have with every part that I have ever played and kept my hands to myself.

Being thought a sadist for so long had many disadvantages. For example, no one expects a sadist to want to cuddle, so I hadn't cuddled in years. When Wade re-introduced me to cuddling the first night that I stayed with him, I became an avid cuddler. After such an extended intimacy drought, it convinced me that people should cuddle more...and hug. I mean, what's a hug but a standing cuddle of shorter duration. After an evening session with Wade, I would always feel more energized and happier the next day. I could only imagine how much better off the world would be if everyone felt that way.

That Friday evening of July 12th, as Wade and I cuddled on the couch to the sound of Ella Fitzgerald streaming from his phone to the wireless speaker he kept on the bookshelf near the door, I received the phone call from Johann wanting to hire Millstone & Roche, so despite the hour, I had to go.

After having lived alone for so long, readying for work in Wade's quarters from my clothes in his closet seemed strange to me. I stood before the open wardrobe, and there were all my clothes, well pressed and hung in a neat row, each hanger two finger-widths apart from one another (just as Wade liked it), right alongside his. After Wade had set the machine to brew some coffee for me, he joined me as I stood staring at it all.

"It feels like I've moved in," I said to him.

"Everything you own is here, so maybe you have. I'm okay with that. I think the only part of you that hasn't moved in is right up here," and he put his finger on my forehead.

His comment had me smiling. "Probably."

At the time, I had just changed into street clothes as usual, but I would have to wear something more provocative if the new case would take us to a club, so I could blend in. When I re-entered Wade's quarters, I caught- ...Well...no, not "caught" exactly. That would imply that he was doing something he shouldn't. Nevertheless, when I found him jacking-off while sitting on the couch, he reacted as though he were guilty. He knew he needed the sex too and had withheld it from me because he wasn't ready. I never wanted him to feel any guilt, so without missing a beat, I said the first words that came to my mind.

"I need your help; will you help me?" And I moved to the wardrobe in the bedroom. Although the split second at the door had made the situation awkward, I tried to pretend it hadn't happened, and he joined me there. I told him the situation and what I needed.

He looked me in the eye, and with a little turn of his head he thumbed over his shoulder to the living area, and said, "I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be. You've done nothing wrong. You have concerns about the size of my ass wrecker, I get that." I kissed him and took him in my arms. "We both need sex, but we have more options than Polyphemus reaming your ass." I ran my hands down his body, got to my knees, pulled his shorts down, and took him into my mouth for the first time.

He gasped and said, "Tucker," and caressed my head as I sucked his cock.

Blowing a guy was an even rarer opportunity than my fucking them, but once someone knows how and enjoys the taste of dick, it's sort of like riding a bicycle; with a cock in their mouth, the enjoyment and know-how are already there. I wanted to go slow and savor our first time, but Millstone and Max would await me in the lobby. So, I squeezed Wade's firm ass and gave him my specialty, a hands-free suck-job. My tongue felt his extra skin and I liked working it with my lips. I sucked him for about five minutes, and when his breathing became erratic, he came with little warning. I could tell he hadn't cum in a while, a sign he tried to wait, and that was thoughtful. From that point, I intended for him to never wait again. I cleaned him up, stood, and kissed him.