My favorite reads from the fourth quarter of 2025.
Friday, January 2, 2026
My Favorite Reads, Fall 2025
Monday, December 29, 2025
Criminal Econ 101, Chapter 1
The new Nick Forte novel, Criminal Econ 101,
hits closer to home than previous books in the series: Forte’s ex-wife – and,
by extension, his beloved daughter Caroline – may be in danger. Readers of the
series can well imagine how well that goes over with Nick.
1
Diane was scared.
Ten years of marriage, acquainted twice
that long, this was new to me. I’d experienced impatience. I’d seen irritation.
I had intimate familiarity with exasperation, most often directed at me shortly
before and well after she requested I seek other living arrangements. I could
count on one hand the times I saw her worried, even when we were married.
Worrying was my job.
Having no experience with a frightened
Diane didn’t make me special. She negotiated partnerships for one of the ten
most prestigious consulting firms in the country. I’d spoken to her co-workers
at social events who marveled at her implacable nature. One man who described
himself to me as an alpha male told me once he’d been told to let her take lead
in negotiations because, “the other guys might as well try to bargain with
Mount Rushmore.”
I’d learned through years of experience
to let her bring concerns to me instead of asking what was on her mind, after
which I’d spend three days wondering when I’d learn not to do that.
Our daughter Caroline went to her room
to get what she needed for the weekend at my place. Fourteen going on
bankruptcy – mine – she’d inherited her mother’s taste in many things. Too bad
for me. Diane made probably twice as much as I did when I did well, which I
currently was not. I wasn’t broke – the house and child support payments were
always on time – but my funding sources had become more unorthodox since my
detective agency downsized to being only me.
Diane waited until we heard Caroline
rummaging upstairs. Moved to within three feet before saying anything. Her
voice wouldn’t have carried another six inches. “Can we talk?”
No human being since the creation of
spoken language has ever wanted to have a conversation that begins with the
other person saying Can we talk? The first answer that came to mind – Do
we have to? – was superseded by the realization whatever Diane wanted to
talk about probably concerned Caroline. Accepting the situation, I followed
Diane into her home office, where she reached across me to shut the door.
Another bad sign. No way was this a conversation I wanted to have if she felt
the need to exclude Caroline.
Diane said, “This is probably nothing.”
Which meant whatever she was going to
say was definitely not nothing. She left the comment hang in the air hoping I’d
say something – anything – to move the conversation. I passed. The best way to
get people to talk about what they’re not comfortable talking about is to leave
a silence for them to fill.
This one passed through awkward and was
coming up on excruciating before she caved. “I think someone is following me.”
I long ago got over any hard feelings
from our divorce. It still took effort not to react. A friend told me Diane and
I resembled siblings who had a major falling out and came to understand they
could get along by avoiding certain topics.
Even if I weren’t so enlightened,
someone following Diane was following Caroline, if only by association.
That was unacceptable.
If true.
I kept my voice neutral. Creating the
perception of doubting her judgment could send the conversation into the swamp
in a hurry. “What makes you think so?”
“I keep seeing the same car. Sometimes
in traffic. Sometimes in the parking lot at work.”
The bridge across the swamp was shaky,
but holding. “What kind of car?”
“A black Hyundai.”
“Same driver every time?”
“I think so. It’s hard to say. I only
get glimpses as I go by, or he does.”
“Always a man, though.”
“I think so.”
“White? Black? Hispanic? Other?”
“Definitely white.”
So probably white. No offense to Diane,
but eyewitness statements are reliable as a junkie’s promise, especially for
witnesses under duress.
“He ever try to approach you?”
Diane shook her head.
“Anything else going on?”
“Like what?”
“Phone calls? Hang ups? Prowlers?”
Wrong thing to say. “Do you think he’d
come to the house?”
“I have no reason to think he’d do
anything. I don’t know for a fact he’s even following you. All I’m doing is
asking.”
“You don’t believe me?”
Oops. Time to regain my footing. “I
believe you think someone is following you. Who and why I can’t say. I need
more information.” Paused. “Does Caroline suspect anything?”
“No! I would never say anything that
might scare her.”
“That’s not what I asked. She’s smart
and she’s sensitive to what’s going on around her. You wouldn’t have to say
anything for her to wonder if something was up.”
Diane took a few seconds for a breath.
“I don’t think so. At least I haven’t noticed anything.”
My daughter’s mother’s superpowers did
not include picking up on non-verbal cues. She sounded as definite as I could
expect given her current state of mind.
I said, “Call me if you see him again
and I’ll come running. That’ll tell us right quick if it’s your imagination or
if someone really is following you. Or if someone who lives near here works in
your building.”
The idea she might be wrong appealed to
her. Something else I’d never seen before. “But what if I’m right and someone is
following me?”
“Then we’ll see how much he likes
being followed.”
Thursday, December 25, 2025
Worse Ways to Spend Your Holiday Money Than On My Book
The seventh Forte novel, Criminal Econ 101 is now available.
The Marketing Department here at The Home Office has adopted the slogan “There
are worse ways to spend your holiday money” as the linchpin of the promotional
campaign.
CRIMINAL ECON 101.
10. Upholstery cleaning for J.D. Vance.
9. Chartering a fishing party on a Trump-class battleship.
8. Purchasing leftover D.O.G.E gear,
7. Picking up Pete Hegseth’s bar tab.
6. Buying a “Baltimore Ravens – 2025 AFC North Champions”
hat.
5. Sending a sympathy card to Erika Kirk.
4. Buying condoms for Nick Fuentes.
3. Sending Hanukah gelt to Tucker Carlson.
2. Taking Donald Trump in your office's 2026 Nobel Peace Prize pool..
1. Buying used or bootleg copies of my other books, which
are all available for free on my web site.
Monday, December 22, 2025
It's a Festivus Miracle!
The seventh Nick Forte novel, Criminal Econ 101,
drops today, an honest to Seinfeld Festivus miracle.
1.
This book is not free. Friends whose opinions I
trust convinced me not to give away my work. Books already posted to my web
site for free download will remain so, with the possible exception of Dead
Shot, which is under evaluation. (So if you want a freebie, go for it.)
2.
Just because I’m charging again doesn’t mean I’m
gouging my dozen(s?) of loyal readers. The e-book retails for $2.99; the print
version is $9.99, the lowest price I can charge and still get paid. I said for
years my publisher asked too much for my books. You can help prove I was right
by increasing sales.
·
Brief excerpts
·
An interview with Nick Forte
·
An interview with me
·
Whatever else I come up with
Thursday, November 20, 2025
A Farewell to Clothes
One day around the turn of the [21st] century I
wondered, “What if [famous author] had written [fairy tale]?” I wrote several
and took a few to my writer’s group, where they were well received.
I came across them while de-cluttering my hard drive and
wondered if I’d still be happy with them. If anything, I’d see how I have
developed as a writer. (if I have.) Maybe I’d learn something. Maybe someone
else would be able to use them to help their own writing. Worst case scenario, they
could keep the blog going while I work on a larger and longer scale project for
this space.
Over the next few months I’ll release a story every week or two.
Today’s story follows.
A
FAREWELL TO CLOTHES
(With
apologies to Ernest Hemingway)
The emperor was a vain man who always made a show of his clothing. This made him a foolish man and a weak man. Strong and wise men do not give in to such conceit.
The emperor’s vanity was so great that he would
not wear the same clothes twice. His clothes were not cheap. His clothes were
well made and they were expensive. Damn fine clothes they were. But not good
enough for him to wear twice. Not for the emperor.
When the emperor held court he regaled his
visitors with stories of his youth. These stories always involved his clothing.
How much better he had looked than this prince. How much more expensive his
clothes had been than those of that duke. Which famous tailor had made his suit
for this princess’ wedding.
He never spoke of women or of sport. He never
engaged in contests of skill or stamina. He was weak in these areas and he knew
it. He busied himself in the arena of clothing and its design. This was a woman’s
arena and it made him a weak emperor. It made him subject to the errors of
judgment those who do not exercise their manhood are prone to. The errors of
judgment that would undo him.
It came to pass after many years that some
confidence men heard of the emperor’s conceits in the area of attire. These
were not scrupulous men. They were not men of conscience. They sorrowed for
their actions no more than a dog feels remorse over eating the warm flesh of a
still-breathing deer. In the emperor they saw wealth. Their wealth, there for
the taking.
These men, named Jack and Nick, invested wisely.
They invested in clothing. The clothing they invested in was calculated to
impress even the emperor. The clothing was purchased from a land far away. It
was a land where the emperor would have no knowledge of the tailor they used.
This would be important. They would have to be able to pass the clothing off as
their own.
Jack and Nick appeared at court one day. They
knew the emperor would notice their finery. They did not approach him directly.
They allowed themselves to be seen. They were seen by those who had the emperor’s
ear. These people would speak to the emperor. The emperor would come.
A few days later an emissary of the emperor did
come. The emperor wished to know where they had purchased their garments.
“We purchase no garments,” Nick said. “We wear
only what we sew ourselves. No one else can meet our standards.”
“Would you be willing to meet our emperor and
discuss this with him?” asked the emissary.
“Yes,” Nick said. “That is why we are here.”
When they met the emperor Jack did most of the
talking. Jack was a good talker. He was a better talker than Nick. Jack could
talk through any change in topic and any temper of conversation. Jack would do
the talking.
The emperor was immediately impressed with their
clothes. They did not wear the same clothes they had worn to court. The emperor
would have recognized those. They had not the money to buy additional suits.
They had bought a suit and a half each and were mixing combinations with each
other. This made them appear to have more suits than they indeed had. The
emperor was deceived, as he would be. He was a shallow man, barely a man at
all. He had no stomach for manly things. It was like deceiving a child.
“These are fine clothes, very fine indeed,” the
emperor said. He stroked the sleeve of Nick’s suit as he said it. The material
felt smooth and comfortable to his hand. It was good material. There was none
finer in the land.
“Yes, that is true, Your Majesty,” said Jack. “These
are fine clothes. This is rich material. But the material we have for your
garments is finer still.”
“Finer than this?” asked the emperor. “How can
that be? I know of material, and I have felt none finer. This is damn fine
material.” And it was, too.
“Yes, Your Majesty, it is true that you have felt
none finer. None finer has been produced in any quantity. But we have a new
process. By this process Nick and I can produce a material so fine it can only
be felt by the most sensitive and discerning fingers. It will be so fine that
it can only be seen by those of the utmost refinement and intellect. This
material will set you apart from all others in your finery.”
The emperor, fop that he was, fell instantly
under their spell. His reasoning had been dulled by years of sluggardly living
during which he had not felt Death’s stale breath in his face even once. He was
no match for the seductions of Jack’s enticements. He agreed instantly that
Jack and Nick should have whatever they would need to create the material they
had promised.
They would need a lot. They would need expensive
and rare fibers. They would need hand-made equipment on which to spin these
fibers. They would need to be left alone so that they could concentrate fully
on their labors. And they would need money. They would need a great deal of
money. They would need more money than anyone had ever conceived of paying for
clothing of any kind. They justified the extreme amounts required by telling
the emperor that they would work for no others while they toiled for him. They
would make these garments exclusively for him.
The emperor was tricked by their seeming
sincerity and devotion. He ordered that they receive everything they asked for.
He decreed that they be given all the time they deemed necessary to complete
their task. Then he went back to his routine of being half a man.
The two thieves deceived him as though tricking a
small female child. They required more and more time. With each requested delay
they told the emperor they were making the clothing more exquisite. He allowed
this many times, believing in their promises of exquisite clothing. This
insured his downfall as surely as if he had given them his permission to take
as much of his money as they wished and return nothing to him for it.
He spoke often of the exquisite clothing he would
soon wear. Wise men knew that he had been duped, or would soon be so. “Exquisite”
is not a word for a man. It is a word, a good word, for a woman. A damn good
word for a woman of some refinement. Not for a man. Certainly not for a man of
power and never for a man who wishes to retain his power for long.
After many months Jack and Nick invited the
emperor and his closest confidants to see what they had created. To see and to
touch the beautiful garments that only those of supreme refinement and
intellect and taste could see and touch. They were not disappointed in the
response.
The emperor and his aides were speechless. They
made various noises about the glorious clothing before them. They ran their
fingers over material so soft and smooth that only the most sensitive of
fingers could feel it. And they approved.
They approved of the clothing and its material
because they were men of such refinement and intellect that they could not
bring themselves to admit that they could not see or feel anything. This should
not have been unexpected. Any man of any sense at all could have told them that
there was nothing there. The looms had created ether. The hangers supported
air. Any fool could see this.
But these men were not fools. They were the
emperor and his most trusted associates. They could not see the truth, nor
could they speak it even to themselves. To admit they could not see or feel
this clothing would be to admit that they were not of the highest echelon of
refinement. It would be to admit that they were common. It would be to admit
that they had been duped. So they saw nothing, and admitted nothing by saying
they saw all.
To celebrate the grand unveiling of the emperor’s
new raiment, a grand parade was planned. Bands would play, maidens would dance,
bulls would run in the streets. At the end of the parade the emperor would walk
among his subjects, showing off the garments that only the best of them could
see.
The parade was a grand success. Everyone in the
realm turned out and no one could see the clothes. No one would admit to this.
To admit to it would be admitting to being of a lower pedigree. In a land ruled
by one such as this emperor, such issues were important. Appearances were what
mattered. Drinks were something to be sipped under an umbrella, from a glass
with an umbrella in it. There was no voice of reason to tell you to drink from
the bottle. There was no one strong enough to fall asleep in the gutter while
his own vomit dried on his chest hair before waking and starting over. It was
that kind of weak place.
The parade had almost run its course when one
spoke up. Not a man, still a child, but a masculine child not yet infected with
the disease of propriety and sameness. This child was strong with the insight
of youth. He was intolerant of falsity and façade. He was uncorrupted by
position. He alone saw what all saw and could not admit. He could admit it and
did. He shouted to all so that none could ignore him.
“Look,” he said bravely, with the courage of a
youth whose self-image of immortality was still intact. “The emperor has no
clothes!” And the emperor did not.
The ruse was over as soon as the boy’s shout rang
through the square. Speaking the truth was the same as exposing the lie and
this lie had seen adequate exposure already. All began to shout until even the
emperor understood that he had been tricked into giving away large sums of
money and walking naked through the streets.
The emperor spared no expense to have Jack and
Nick found. They were tried and convicted and placed in the worst prison in the
kingdom. Here they could make all of the clothing they wished. They could make
it for the rats and cockroaches and other vermin that were their roommates and
shared their food if they had not defecated into it first.
The emperor built many such prisons. In these
prisons men could be punished as men deserved. Those who were strong enough
were rehabilitated. Those whose weakness allowed them to be punished were
punished. For those who had committed no crimes, he started a series of wars.
In this manner they, too, could be tested to ensure their manhood would not be
found wanting.
This was all done so his subjects would never
again fall prey to weakness such as that to which he had succumbed. It was
successful. All lived happily ever after. Those who did not live as long as
they might have under the old regime shed their mortal remains honorably. Those
who were injured, no matter how gravely, wore their scars, no matter how
grotesque, proudly. They wore them as badges of honor, higher rewards than
could be bestowed by any man arbitrarily. Their women honored them as they
deserved to be honored, as warriors who would return with their shields or on
them. The land thrived, all thanks to a small boy who would not be deceived.
Monday, November 3, 2025
Do Your Job
For years I have argued with anyone who would listen – and more than a few who wouldn’t – that crime fiction writers have a responsibility to portray the world we live in as realistically as possible. Problems occur every day because people think what they see on CSI or Law and Order or NCIS is how things actually work.
The standard response is, “That’s
boring. Our job is to entertain.”
And they’re right. That stuff is
boring. We do need to entertain our readers. What’s the solution?
I’ve never heard it put more
accurately or succinctly than Mandy
Miller did at the last Bouchercon:
“It’s the writer’s job to make
interesting things that could be boring.”
It’s as simple as that: Do your
job.
I’ve heard all the excuses. People
won’t read that. Readers want action. This is more entertaining. Those are
beside the point. It’s our job to make the mundane interesting. That’s
why we make the small dough.
“Okay, smart guy. How?”
It’s not that hard. It’s not as
easy as looking up a detail online, but it’s not rocket surgery, either. What
it takes is a conscious desire to get it right, and a little conscientious
effort.
The highest compliments I receive
as a writer come when people who read my work or hear me speak mistake me for a
retired cop, even though I’ve never been closer to being a cop than chatting
with Bruce Coffin and Colin Campbell at Bouchercon.
How do I pull it off?
For starters, my research is
rarely specific. By that I mean I don’t often find myself looking up a single
fact or process. Maybe once a book, if that. What I do is:
· Read books by cops. Adam Plantinga’s 400 Things Cops Know and Police Craft receive attention every time I begin a Penns River book. Bernard Shaffer’s The Way of the Warrior is another valuable resource.
· Read books about cops. Connie Fletcher ‘wrote’ five books by getting cops together, buying the pizza and beer, then sitting a tape recorder on the table and letting them talk. David Simon’s Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets is still the gold standard, though it’s over thirty years old. Justin Fenton’s We Own This City gives a behind the scenes look at corrupt cops.
· Watch selective TV shows and movies. This is trickier. It’s best if the show or movie has been around for a while and been vetted by people who know what they’re talking about. The Wire. We Own This City. 19-2.
The objective is to insert your
research between the lines, making the interactions among the cops as true to
life as possible. Here’s an excerpt from my first Penns River novel, Worst
Enemies:
They
found Neuschwander in the bedroom packing up. “I’ll get what I have here out to
the lab soon as I get it logged and separated. When it comes back is anyone’s
guess.” He held up a hand before Grabek could speak. “This ain’t the big city.
We suck hind tit on this kind of stuff. I’ll give them the usual ‘violent
offender at large’ spiel, so maybe you’ll get it in six weeks instead of eight.
Except for the DNA. Jesus Christ couldn’t come down from heaven and get you DNA
results in less than four months.”
“You
have DNA?” Doc said.
“We
should. She put up a hell of a fight. There’s skin, blood, and fiber under her
nails. The ME will bag her hands and send what we find to the lab. If you luck
into a suspect in the next few days, he’ll have scratches on him. Willie, you
talked to the husband. Did he say anything about puking when he found her?”
“No.”
Neuschwander
smiled. “Someone did. I’d guess he lost it when he got a good look at her. I
see some swirls and a wipe pattern, so he tried a half-assed clean-up job, but
I got a good enough sample to use.”
Now we know the local cops have a
guy who knows how to collect DNA, and where DNA might be found, including in
vomit, which will be news to a lot of people. We also know it will be four
months – at least – before they get anything back.
DNA is not mentioned in the book
again, except to remind the reader the results are still pending. And that’s
all the reader needs to know about it.
It’s not hard, but it is
important. As Thomas A. Burns said at the Creatures, Crimes, and Creativity
conference, “There is a difference between factual distortion and fiction.” It takes
practice and a lot of reading. A lot. Not just the research-oriented
reading I mentioned above, but reading extensively in the genre so you have a
feel for who went on too long, who didn’t tell enough, and who got the balance
right.
That’s your job. Do it.
Friday, October 24, 2025
Down and All the Way Out
It’s been a couple of weeks since Down & Out Books expired but I like to let things marinate before opining. As a former Down & Out author who was there during the glory days but got out while the getting was good, I may have a unique perspective worth sharing.
