Begin your Moonlight journey today with a FREE copy of MOONLIGHT FALLS, the first novel in the Thriller and Shamus Award-winning series.

  Or visit WWW.VINZANDRI.COM to join Vincent's "For your eyes only" newsletter today.

  PRAISE FOR VINCENT ZANDRI

  "Sensational . . . masterful . . . brilliant."

  —New York Post

  "(A) chilling tale of obsessive love from Thriller Award–winner Zandri (Moonlight Weeps) . . . Riveting."

  —Publishers Weekly

  ". . . Oh, what a story it is . . . Riveting . . . A terrific old school thriller."

  —Booklist "Starred Review"

  "Zandri does a fantastic job with this story. Not only does he scare the reader, but the horror

  Show he presents also scares the man who is the definition of the word "tough."

  —Suspense Magazine

  "I very highly recommend this book . . . It's a great crime drama that is full of action and intense suspense, along with some great twists . . . Vincent Zandri has become a huge name and just keeps pouring out one best seller after another."

  —Life in Review

  "(The Innocent) is a thriller that has depth and substance, wickedness and compassion."

  —The Times-Union (Albany)

  "The action never wanes."

  —Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

  "Gritty, fast-paced, lyrical and haunting."

  —Harlan Coben, New York Times bestselling author of Six Years

  "Tough, stylish, heartbreaking."

  —Don Winslow, New York Times bestselling author of Savages and Cartel.

  "A tightly crafted, smart, disturbing, elegantly crafted complex thriller . . . I dare you to start it and not keep reading."

  —MJ Rose, New York Times bestselling author of Halo Effect and Closure

  "A classic slice of raw pulp noir…"

  —William Landay, New York Times bestselling author of Defending Jacob

  "Zandri (is) a veteran wordsmith who executes quality and quantity at superlative levels."

  --Book Reporter

  Pembroke Pines:

  A Short Thriller

  Vincent Zandri

  "It may be said with a degree of assurance that not everything that meets the eye is as it appears."-- Rod Serling

  1

  I can't take it anymore. Who the hell could? If I were to explain my situation in an advertisement for a circular my ad agency would force me to write practically at gunpoint, it might go something like this: "Overused and Abused Husband in Need of Relief and Escape!"

  But allow me to back up a bit.

  Here's the deal: my wife, Angela, moved out of the bedroom months ago, and now she sleeps on the bed she keeps in her home office just in case we have overnight visitors, which is a rarity these days since no one in their right minds would want to be around us. Not when we're living in a state of siege anyway, which sadly is our perpetual situation.

  Making matters worse (and more sad), we're at one another's throats so much, our teenage daughter, Jennifer, screams at the top of her lungs for us to get a divorce already.

  "No one likes you anymore, Sam and Angela," she barks using our first names, having given up on the more traditional "mom and dad" a long time ago. We're no longer mother and father to her, so much as children.

  But deep down my heart really breaks not for me, but for my daughter. Maybe my brow will be sweating from another shouting match with Angela, my heart pumping way too fast, and my pulse elevated to dangerous levels that my doctor warned me about a long time ago. But I'll lay my eyes on a teary-eyed Jennifer, focus in on her attractive, round face, her long dark hair as long and lush as her mother's, her eyes brown and big, and maybe I won't enter into a complete myocardial infarction, but my heart will still break.

  Get what I'm saying?

  This is exactly what happened this evening when, just before dinner, I happened to catch an email left open on Angela's laptop (my guess is she wanted me to see it). It was from a local writer by the name of Ed Jones who'd made a pretty good name for himself as a mystery novelist.

  Angela nailed a job with him as his assistant a few months back and old Ed ended up nailing her. If you get my drift (sometimes I hear them talking on the phone when Angela is in her bedroom/office with the door shut…the two of them giggling like horny teenagers. It's enough to drive you to drink. But I digress…).

  The double whammy of the situation is that one, I've always wanted to be a novelist and a mystery novelist at that. And two, the closest I could ever come to making a living as a writer is penning ad copy for a two-bit local agency that's always bordering on bankruptcy. Since it's pretty much the only ad agency left alive in Albany (Fiver and Upwork have killed the industry), it means I can never ask for a raise, or the owners, a portly, late middle-aged man and wife team, will fire my five-feet nine inches, one-hundred eighty-five-pound, fifty-year-old carcass on the spot. In turn, they'll hire some kid fresh out of college and pay him or her half of what I'm making.

  Writers…we're a dime a fucking dozen.

  So yeah, what I'm trying to say is, money has always been a bit tight in the Harris household and that's made the situation even worse. So, when later on that evening, I see a pair of headlights pull up into the driveway and Angela go running out the front door like our house is burning down, I can't help but follow her. I don't head outside exactly, but I watch the action through one of the three little square pieces of glass embedded in the old front door.

  The car is a Mustang convertible and Mr. Wonderful Mystery Author Ed Jones is wearing this beaming smile on his face that's glowing in a radiance that shines red-orange from the setting sun. The smile makes me wonder if my wife is giving him a hand-job.

  Speaking of the wife, Angela is dressed in a tight black t-shirt that accentuates her rather abundant chest and a pair of tight Levis and worn cowboy boots. If only she were fat and old looking. Instead, she's kept herself in great shape and she looks ten years younger than her real age. She's laughing it up with the mystery man and I'll be damned if she doesn't lean into him and lay the biggest, wettest, fattest kiss in the world on him.

  Maybe I've sort of gotten used to the new living situation in the rundown Harris, single-story ranch home, but my heart still sinks to somewhere around my ankles. I used to be in love with this woman once upon a time. Do you know what really sucks? I might be truly angry with her…bone deep angry…but I'm still in love with her.

  When I feel the hand on my shoulder, my heart jumps up into my throat. Turning around fast, I see that it's Jennifer. She's still dressed in her Dunkin' Donuts uniform from having worked the Saturday afternoon shift.

  "Listen, Sam," she says, in a mature if not young adult voice, "we both know Angela's been acting like kind of an asshole lately. It doesn't help having to look at you with sad puppy dog eyes all the time either. Maybe you should get away for a while. Take a trip. A road-trip. Even for a week or something like that. It will do you good."

  I have to admit. My daughter in all her seventeen-and-a-half-year-old wisdom is making perfect sense. I do have some vacation time coming and maybe it is time to hop in my used Jeep and get the hell out of Dodge for a while (if you'll excuse the cliché). If I stay here much longer, I will surely die a little bit more every day. What do the torturers call it? A death by a thousand cuts. No, that's not right. A death by a thousand cuts at the hands of the two assholes making out in the driveway of my home sweet home.

  I lean into my daughter and give her a peck on the cheek. I then go into the closet and grab my black leather coat and slip into it.

  "I'll leave right now," I say. "My road trip to nowhere."

  "That's the spirit, Sammy," she says.

  "You ever gonna call me, dad?" I say.

  "Don't hold your breath," she says. "I'm the only adult around here."

  About-facing, she heads back into the safety of her bedroom.

  2

  It takes me less than five minutes to throw some clothes and a toothbrush into an old backpack I've had since my college days. Throwing it over my shoulder, I exit the master bedroom. I've been sleeping alone inside the space for far too long while my wife is banging a mystery writer and being none too secretive about it. Suffice it to say, I'm not going to miss the place. But I will miss Jennifer (goes without saying, right?)

  In my head I write some quick ad copy for the bedroom, should Angela decide to put it up on Airbnb after I'm gone.

  Your new home away from home awaits. A master bedroom with an attached bath where the former occupants created their daughter 18 years ago, but now can't stand the sight of one another. It's an unholy place where your sleep will be restless, your dreams will be bad, and you will likely wake up with a stomachache. But hey, the price is right.

  Maybe I'm better at my crappy ad copy job than I give myself credit.

  Making my way down the hall, I stop outside Jennifer's closed door. I hear some pop music being blared through her stereo speakers. She's in her other world right now. Her happy place. A world separate from this hellscape that Angela and I have created for her. She knows how much I love her. A love so deep, it goes all the way down to my bones. Or how does the Talking Heads song go? A love so deep, kills you in your sleep…

  But I intend to live.

  Raising my hand, I make a fist. I'm just about to knock on the door when I decide not to disturb her. Running away is her idea after all. Best that I just make my escape while I have the chance.

  Lowering my hand, I go to th e front vestibule and grab the carabiner that holds the keys to the Jeep, plus the keys to the house and to the ad agency. Opening the front door, I step out into the warm summer night and spot my wife still standing beside the convertible Mustang. Oh good, the two love birds are sharing a big fat joint. Bet the neighbors are getting a real show tonight.

  Angela glares at me, a shit-eating smile on a face that used to be pretty, but that now is just pretty fucked up.

  "Where do you think you're going?" she asks, some blue smoke exiting her mouth and nostrils.

  "Going on a camping trip, ad man?" Ed Jones adds, not without a stoned, wise-ass giggle.

  I notice he's wearing Wayfarer sunglasses even with the sun going down. I guess he thinks he's Jack Nicholson.

  "What's it to you, asshole?" I say, as I casually pass by the car. "That goes for you too, Angela."

  "Wow," she says, "such unique dialogue. No wonder you couldn't make it as a novelist like Eddy has."

  She turns away from me, refocuses on the mystery man. He's loving this exchange because it makes him feel like the absolute balls. I guess if I were in his position, a published author making enough money to buy a Mustang convertible and have a woman like Angela going down on him every night, I'd be smiling too.

  But then, Angela is my wife and we're not even legally separated yet, which begs the question.

  "Angela," I say. "Before I hit the road, I need to ask you a question."

  She turns to me again, her annoyance as palpable as the waning sunlight that reflects against her brown eyes.

  "What is it, Sam?" she says. "I'm busy."

  "I just wanted to make it official," I say. "Ole Ed here can be the witness."

  "Witness to what, ad man?" Ed says.

  "I want a divorce, Angela," I say. "And if I were you, I'd lawyer up, because I'm gonna take you for every red cent you got. You hear me?"

  Angela's eyes are once more focused on mine. I can see the rage in them. I can also make out how tight her face is like her skin is about to split down the middle of her Botox-injected forehead. It's as if by popping the Big D question before she got the chance, I've robbed her of something important.

  "Oh, we're getting divorced all right, asshole," she says. "And you can bet that with Ed's help, I'm going to get the best lawyer money can buy." She turns to Ed. "Isn't that right Ed, darling?"

  "Ah, yeah, sure thing, Angie," he says. "Whatever you want."

  I notice a slight trepidation in his voice like he doesn't quite have the financial resources he's led my wife to believe. Or is it possible he's banging her just because she's the flavor of the month? Or maybe because it's fun. But is he into this so deep he's willing to pay for her divorce? Why do I get the distinct feeling he's not? So many questions, but too few answers.

  One thing is for sure, I might be an ad man, but I do know this: being a mystery writer, no matter how famous you get, is not exactly a means for getting rich. Most well-known writers give off the impression of being rich and successful, but the truth is, they're only as good as their next royalty check, which might not arrive for another six months.

  Still, as I head down the driveway toward my Jeep, I can picture the headline now, "Mystery Writer Agrees to Pay for Illicit Girlfriend's Divorce."

  If only the poor bastard knew what he was getting into. Raising my hand high, I give the two love birds a backhanded wave goodbye. I finish the wave by extending my middle finger high.

  3

  It's kind of a shame really. Angela used to be a nice girl. Our past five years together haven't been our first go-round. When we met almost twenty years ago, I fell head-over-heels for her. Or was it heels-over-head since it didn't take more than two dates for us to hit the sack together (on my futon which was situated on the hardwood floor of my studio apartment in north Albany)?

  We married not long after I got my job at the ad agency for fifteen bucks an hour. I was happy as a clam because I was a young buck and being paid for my words and making a humble living at it. But always in the back and front of my mind, the position was intended to be temporary while during my off hours, I worked on my first big novel. It was called The Innocent Angels (I know, awful, right?), and I was certain of its brilliance as so many young writers are.

  But when the agent I contracted with to sell it, came up short with a no sale across the then vast New York City editorial spectrum, he dropped me like a bad habit.

  "Maybe time to start thinking about a real job, kid," he said. "Like driving a truck."

  In a word, I was devastated. That one novel took me three full years to write, and the sad truth of the matter is that I didn't have another novel in me to just shit out a second book. At least, not right away. In a word, I was twenty-six years old and done as a novelist before I even started. Or so I was convinced at the time.

  Enter the next phase of my life: I settled in at the ad agency and wrote my ad copy day in and day out. In the evenings I drank a six-pack of beer, maybe some whiskey smoked one Marlboro Light after the other, and rode out life like it was one big pity party. To say Angela and I were unhappy together was putting it rather mildly. Miserable was more like it.

  But we didn't give up on one another. And when Angela got pregnant with Jennifer, things picked up a little and the thick atmosphere thinned out a little. I started on a new novel, and I was certain this one would get sold and we'd soon be living in a house in Malibu in sunny California. We spent that year preparing for the baby's arrival by dressing up one of the three bedrooms in our little house as a nursery, complete with pink walls and blue curtains.

  But at the same time, we were so confident that my new book, The Death and Life of Manny Z (a better title, right?), was going to sell for a million bucks (by now I had a new agent in New York City…a real agent at a real agency), that we hired a Los Angeles-based real estate agent and begun the process of looking at houses situated on the beach in California.

  As soon as it was possible, the plan was to move lock, stock, and barrel to a small, little-known place called Pembroke Pines which was located just north of LA County where there was a little more space and plenty of beachfront to go around. It wasn't exactly hot all year round, but the weather was far better than in upstate New York.

  For the first time in a long time, Angela and I were happy. I was now thirty-three, moving up the ranks at the advertising agency (for what it was worth), and my new novel looked like it was not only going to sell in a mid-six figure deal to a major New York City publisher, but the movie rights were going to be quickly snatched up too.

  When little Jennifer arrived, we spoiled her as much as we could. From new clothes to toys to the best car seat money could buy, we bought it for her. Money and credit card balances seemed to be no object because after all, untold riches and fame were right around the corner.

  Then, one day, when we were celebrating Jennifer's first birthday with a house full of guests, including Angela's parents, my agent rang me on my cell phone. Convinced this was the big phone call I'd been waiting for my entire adult life, I decided to answer it right in the living room in front of the entire crowd.

  "Jeeze, Sam," my agent said in a glum voice that made my heart immediately sink into my stomach. Of course, I knew what he was about to say before it even came out of his mouth. "I just can't seem to sell this one."

  "You mean my new book," I said. It was an idiotic response, but it just sort of came out.

  "I'm sorry, Sam," he said. "I really am." Then, he cleared a frog out of his throat that probably didn't need clearing. "Have you thought about maybe self-publishing?"

  "Self-publishing," I said, dejected. Then, is a far louder voice "Are you fucking, fucking, fucking serious?"

  I must have been really shouting because when I turned around, the entire living room was eyeballing me. And what was worse? My baby daughter started to cry.

  Angela approached me, her face tight as a tick.

  "Really, Sam," she whispered, "you have to do that here in the living room in front of my family?"

  I didn't just look her in the eye. I gave her a look that went right through her skin, bones, and flesh like white hot lasers.

 

1 2 3 4 5