Monday, June 28, 2010

A Twist Of Noir 491 - David Harry Moss


Originally published at DZ Allen's Muzzle Flash

In bright sunlight, Carrie Caraway dug slim fingers into shapely hips and glared at the homicide detective. A fitness model, Carrie was blond and twenty-two. She stood 5’10” and weighed a sleek 139.

Raking Carrie with lusting eyes, the detective said, “You are one hot bitch.”

Carrie frowned and dug deeper with her fingers. “What do you want?” Wearing black tie-string fleece shorts, a yellow zipper sports bra, running shoes, and a black bandana holding her hair in place, she had just returned from a three mile jog and needed a shower.

“I want you to identify a body.”

Carrie flinched. “Why me?”

“The stiff I want you to I.D. phoned you just before she,” he paused, studied Carrie’s impassive expression, and then said, “died.”

After a quick shower, Carrie slipped into flip-flop sandals and a sexy short halter romper the color of her smooth tanned skin. In her cream-colored Mustang convertible, she followed the detective from her condo in Santa Monica to downtown Los Angeles. A morgue attendant opened a metal drawer and removed the sheet from the dead girl’s face. Carrie noticed red jagged rope burns on the dead girl’s neck.

Carrie winced. “I know her. Judy Klinger.”

“Why didn’t you return her call last night?”

“No good reason. I was tired. I did a fifteen-hour photo shoot yesterday.” The A.C. in the room made Carrie shiver.


Carrie twisted her lips into a thin scowl. “You don’t think I murdered Judy, do you?”

“Right now, everyone is a suspect, especially here closest friends.”

Carrie nodded. “All over Catalina Island.” Her lips softened. “Any idea who strangled her?”

The detective shook his head. The hum of the AC got louder. Carrie rubbed her bare cold arms. Maybe her breasts jiggled. The detective stared at Carrie and smirked.

Carrie’s lips tensed. “Are you going to try to get the killer or are you just going through the motions?”

The detective lifted his sloped shoulders and shuffled his feet. “We’ll do our best.”

Carrie grinned. She figured the cops had Judy pegged as a slut so they didn’t care. Going out the door, Carrie said, “I’ll do my best, too.”


Rod Martin was a porn movie stud, and Judy’s boyfriend. Carrie gave him a quick once over. He was shirtless, had a nice body, a good-looking face, and wore only white boxer briefs. Carrie backed him up striding through the door into his Hollywood apartment and said, “Who killed Judy?”

“Who are you?” Martin was two inches taller than Carrie and at least thirty pounds heavier but Carrie knew how to fight; she was into kickboxing and didn’t think Martin would be much of a problem.

A snarl curled her lips. She stood taller and spread her slim sun-bronzed legs. “Maybe you murdered Judy,” Carrie pressed.

“You’re crazy. I’d never hurt Judy.”

“Then send me somewhere else or I’ll tear this place apart looking for clues.” Carrie grinned and ran the palms of her hands down and over her hips. “Unless you think you can stop me.” Carrie squared her shoulders and made her hands into fists.

Martin pulled his lips back into a leer. His sex-craved gaze strayed over Carrie’s lush curves. The long, menacing love-muscle between his legs bulged. “There are a few things I’d like to do with you but fighting isn’t one of them.” A wanton look commanded his expression. He lunged at Carrie, hands out with the intention of pinning her shoulders against the back wall. After that, when she quit struggling, he’d tear her dress away to expose her luscious tits and succulent pussy and then he’d use that nine inch pole he made a living with.

Carrie slugged him hard in the gut and the fight ended. Rod Martin doubled over gasping for air. Carrie pushed him backwards into a chair. “Still think you’re a bad boy?”

He lowered his eyes and whimpered, “No.”

“Then talk about Judy.”

He lifted his face and looked up into Carrie’s harsh green eyes. He sighed. “Judy liked girls as much as guys.”

“That’s old news. Come up with something better.”

Carrie’s stern look made Rod Martin cower. “Lately, she was seeing a dyke named Debbie Hansen.”


Debbie lived in West Hollywood off Melrose. She had fake boobs and a pretty face. When Carrie told her Judy was dead, Debbie started to cry.

“I told Judy to be careful,” Debbie sobbed.

“Careful about what?”

“Running her credit cards over max and bouncing checks. She took a job as an assistant to a scumbag photographer on a shoot in Mexico and found out he was smuggling some shit back into the country.” Debbie sniffled and rubbed her eyes.

“What kind of shit?”

“I don’t know.” Her tone was bleak.

Carrie guessed that Debbie knew but was too afraid to tell. It didn’t matter.

“Judy said she had a friend who would know what to do. Are you that friend?”

Carrie shrugged. “I guess I am, or was. Judy phoned me last night. Who’s this photographer?”

“Skip something. Pratt, I think. He’s on La Cienega. But it’s too late to help Judy now.”

Carrie said, “Yeah. But not too late to make this sleaze-ball pay for what he did to her.”

Debbie raised her hands as a sign of warning. “He’s nobody to mess with.”

“Neither am I.”


Carrie found the studio but Skip Pratt wasn’t there so Carrie broke in and ransacked the rooms. She found a stash of cocaine in a plastic bag and a gun, a wicked little thirty-two automatic. Carrie stretched out in an easy chair and waited.

Later, with early evening shadows spreading like crooked black claws across the floor, Skip came home. He was burly and had long ratty hair tied in a ponytail. When he saw Carrie, he licked his lips and leered.

“Well, well, dinner is served.”

A sense of danger caused Carrie’s perfect breasts to firm and the nubs of nipples to harden and poke out. Carrie uncrossed here legs. The short romper ran up on her firm thighs. She wasn’t wearing panties. Skip’s eyes got big and bold.

Carrie sat up and the romper ran higher. She tossed the bag of coke at Skip’s feet. She showed him the gun. “Call the cops and tell them you murdered Judy. A confession will make it a done deal that you go down on this.”

“What if I don’t?”

“You see where the gun is aimed.” Carrie had it pointed between Skip’s legs. “A squeeze of this trigger and you’re a eunuch.”

He grinned brazenly. “I don’t think you have the guts to shoot me.”

“You have five seconds to make that phone call or find out. I’ll count like they do in the movies.” On five, Carrie pulled the trigger.

BIO: David Harry Moss is a writer and an actor. His mystery fiction can be found in print in Gary Lovisi’s Hardboiled and online. As an actor, he has appeared in dozens of films most notably Silence of the Lambs as an F.B.I. agent. Currently, he lives in Pittsburgh but has also lived in Phoenix and Minneapolis. Other favorite habitats include New York City, Los Angeles, the Florida Gulf Coast, and Paris.

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