The Fifth District Mysteries

The Fifth District Mysteries

Status: In Progress

Genre: Romance

Details

Status: In Progress

Genre: Romance

Summary

You're still not ready to leave Kinkington? You don't even know the real Kinkington yet. You may have seen some heartwarming romances, the artists and writers and maids, but you haven't seen the craziest of the crazy. Now it's time to see what's in the red light district.

Summary

You're still not ready to leave Kinkington? You don't even know the real Kinkington yet. You may have seen some heartwarming romances, the artists and writers and maids, but you haven't seen the craziest of the crazy. Now it's time to see what's in the red light district.

Chapter1 (v.1) - Beginnings are Stupid

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: July 23, 2016

Reads: 413

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: July 23, 2016

A A A

A A A

So you've read a lot about Kinkington from the most distinguished author, Eliza Brooke Ward. Perhaps one of the most celebrated authors this city has never seen still has to yield just once, to the private investigator turned novelist, D.C. Moore. While Eliza writes books that appeal to everyone, captivates the masses, and pulls on the strings of every heart, there is an even darker side to Kinkington that has yet to be told. Now that the first toe has breached the surface of those lovey-dovey, true love fairytales, it is time to enter the neo-noir of the fifth district; the district in which there are no rules, where the deepest, darkest corners are pulled into the spotlight. The world of D.C. Moore. 

Okay, I have to put a stop to this here. Hi, D.C. Moore here. I hate writing beginnings, so I had Eliza do it for me. Well, I told her I was having trouble with the beginning, and she snorted and wrote ten pages for me. That's right. The paragraph above, she managed to drag out into ten pages. Although it was an entertaining read, I've decided to spare the reader. Just as she went through her infamous year of writer's block, I have found myself with a similar blaise feeling toward my work. I guess, life just gets the better of us all, sometimes, so I've taken a leaf from Eliza's book and decided to write about my own. 

Unlike popular opinion would have you believe, this would be the first time my professional and personal life have mixed. I was never a PI before I was a crime novelist, a small-scale Conan Arthur Doyle. Thanks to Eliza, however, everyone thinks I started writing crime novels to supplement my income as a PI. You know, I met this girl, maybe five years ago, and she still insists I was a PI before I was a novelist, when the opposite was true. Still, she did bring a lot of good into my life.

She was dating that cop at the time. Officer Elijah Morris. It was late morning when there was a furious knocking on my door. Putting down my coffee and bagel, I ran down the stairs of my townhouse and opened the door. 

Without invitation, the brat slid past me and into the foyer, demanding, "Are you D.C. Moore, PI?"

"I go by Dawson, actually, and I'm not a PI," I said. "I'm a novelist."

"Well, yeah. Don't all crime novelists have some sort of crime fighting job?" Eliza replied. "If you guys were just enthusiasts, it would be weird."

I blinked at this fiery force of nature before me, unsure if she was serious or not. "Can . . . I help you?" I asked. 

"Yes. I'm Eliza Brooke, and I have a crime that needs to be solved," Eliza told me.

"Didn't you just publish this big book?" I asked. I recognized her name. From rumors, I knew that she had lived here before, but only on breaks from her school. 

She shrugged. "It did alright." I wouldn't call the numbers of copies sold, or money made 'alright', but how well her writing has done is the one thing Eliza has ever been humble about. Pacing back and forth, she rammed her fist into her palm. "But that douchbag isn't going to be when I'm done with him. Preying on the weak and innocent. Bringing down the neighborhood. Being an abuser abusing abuserson."

"I think you need to start a couple details back," I told her, trying not to get caught up on the fact that 'abuser abusing abuserson' had fallen out of the mouth of an obscenely successful author. I guess some of us are better at talking on paper than in real life.  

Again, she slammed her fist into her palm. "There is no time! My boyfriend is a cop, and he can't find out that I didn't let this go. He's so strict, and I let him think I promised, and the last time I used a word play loophole to get out of a promise . . .." 

As her voice drifted off, she slid her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, and grimaced as she massaged her butt. Clearly, that spanking did her a lot of good, if she was just going behind his back. "I think your boyfriend is being wise. I mean, if the cops know-."

The look she gave me was scathing. "What kind of PI are you?"

"I'm not, actually," I answered. 

She narrowed her eyes. "You know what the cops will do. They'll try, maybe a few of them will really, deeply care. But it's all, the law says this and the boss wants this and the peope who donate to the department said, and by the time they have all of the facts, you've lived another year with a comatose father, a volatile mother, and no food in the fridge."

Once more, I blinked. "You have some unresolved issues, don't you?"

"Don't all writers? Why else do you solve crimes?" Eliza placed a hand on her stomach. Before I could tell her again, that I was in fact, not a PI, she demanded, "Do you have any food?"

I sighed. I don't know why she didn't believe that I didn't solve crimes, but I saw a story in her, and I wanted to be a part of it. So I led her to the kitchen, and let her rummage through the fridge. She pulled out a pizza box from the weekend, and started devouring cold slices of barbecue chicken and pineapple pizza. She moaned appreciatively, and I knew she had to be special. I mean, so few people truly appreciate pineapple on pizza. 

 

 


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