“Seingold. Seingold!” Moxley called. Seingold turned. His expression was bland; he was apparently in one of his ignore-Harold-Moxley moods. There was no time to indulge petty grudges. Even the Goops were potential allies right now.  “Harold Moxley,” said Seingold. “Yeah, yeah, I get it,” said Moxley. “You don’t like me, I don’t like you,... »

“Geez, Fran, can’t you change that?” asked Moxley, looking up from his corner booth at Row’s. He was nursing a cup of coffee he couldn’t afford, once more absorbed in the dozens of detailed case files Ray Neiring had amassed in the last weeks of his life.  As the waitress continued to ignore him... »

The girl with the platinum hair glanced down at the device in her hand. Left here. Then a right.  Then through the alley and two hundred meters farther on.  She hurried up the street, ducked into the channel between two buildings, and emerged on the other side, fighting a sense of déjà vu.  Hongkongtown... »

“Carol?” said Mox. “Are you okay? I’ve been standing here for like ten minutes.” “Yes, yes,” said Carol Latham. “I’m so sorry, Harold. It’s just… I’m sorry. Please come in. Please. Come in.” Moxley took off his hat and, seeing no place to hang it, simply held on to it.  He felt out of... »

One of the ongoing frustrations for every writer who is not also a politically correct, progressive true believer — and there sure are plenty of authors who are — is that in the online world where most of us ply our trade and promote our work, the depredations of “social justice” types are unavoidable. Social justice... »

“Take a long look, Mister Miller,” said Councilwoman Sara Lindsey. She pushed the pocket tab across the table. The image it displayed was not pleasant: A man in his late twenties lay suspended in an air cot, covered in burns that, in some cases, were deep enough to expose bone. Whether the man was... »