Beyond The Window: A Fast Paced Crime Thriller (Private Detective Heinrich Muller Crime Thriller Book 2)
Beyond the Window
By Robert Brown
© Robert Brown 2018 All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction, any names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are purely from the imagination of the author or used for fictitious and entertainment purposes only. Any resemblance to real people living or dead and actual events is purely coincidental.
No parts of this book may be reproduced. Reviewers may quote small passages in the book for reviewing purposes.
Dedication
This is for everybody that reads and contributes to helping writers everywhere have a dream.
✽✽✽
Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides.
Lao Tzu
When confronted with two alternatives, life and death, one is to choose death without hesitation.
Yamamoto Tsunetomo
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
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CHAPTER ONE
Heinrich Müller had interviewed potential clients in many strange places—under bridges, at heavy metal concerts, even in the living room of a collector of Nazi memorabilia. When one was a private detective, that came with the territory. But of all the hidden corners and odd locations where he had heard clients’ stories and listened to their pleas for help, this one had to be the worst.
Starbucks.
He hated the soulless chain stores ruining his once-vibrant city of New York. Starbucks was right there at the top of his shit list.
Standing in line waiting for his coffee, he couldn’t count the number of square beards, ironically waxed moustaches, cat’s-eye glasses, and heads of dyed hair that surrounded him. The hipsters were an invading army, and this was their command center.
“I’d like a Caramel Brulée Frappuccino,” said someone in line ahead of him.
“I’d like a Toasted White Chocolate Mocha with soy milk.”
“I’d like a Chestnut Praline Latte with extra whipped cream.”
Heinrich shook his head and tried not to hit someone. These weren’t coffees; these were confections.
“Next, please,” said the guy with the nose ring behind the counter.
The twenty-something in front of Heinrich didn’t hear. He was too busy on Facebook.
Heinrich prodded him.
“You’re up, phone zombie.”
The guy turned with what was intended to be a withering stare. The effect was ruined by the fact that he was wearing a tweed vest and a bow tie. In any case, the expression died as soon as he saw the person who had poked him in the small of the back—a man twice his age and ten times his muscle mass. Heinrich boxed three times a week and pumped iron on off days. This guy’s idea of exercise was mashing an avocado.
Mr. Tweed Vest hurried to the counter. “I’d like a Teavana Shaken Peach Citrus White Tea Infusion, please.”
“With a double order of estrogen,” Heinrich added.
The guy behind the counter glanced at him. Mr. Tweed Vest pretended not to hear.
Once he left, Heinrich stepped up. “A black coffee, please.”
“Milk and sugar?” asked the guy with the nose ring. Heinrich remembered that the people who worked there were called “baristas.” A fancy name for a crap job.
“I said a black coffee.”
“Any flavorings?”
Heinrich’s fists clenched.
“Black. Coffee.”
“What size?”
“Small.” He wanted to spend as little as possible in this shithole.
“That’s one tall black coffee,” said Mr. Nose Ring, taking some time to find the unfamiliar buttons on his touchscreen.
“I said small.”
Mr. Nose Ring looked at Heinrich like he had a mental disorder. “Tall is small. It’s our smallest size.”
“Then why do you call it tall?”
Mr. Nose Ring clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes like the teenager he was.
Fucking hell, Heinrich fumed. Where’s Black Lives Matter when you need them? Aren’t they supposed to be picketing this place for flagrant display of white privilege or something?
Once he got his coffee, Heinrich looked around the too-bright, too-crowded, and too-clean interior for his potential client. The guy had said he was with a baby. That made him easy to spot.
Brixton Murphy sat in a corner, sipping some huge pink drink in a plastic cup. Strapped to his chest in a cloth sling was a sleeping baby who looked about a year old. The guy was in his early thirties.
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