Category: Detective

Death on the L.A. River

Christmas Eve in the City of the Angels came in hot and mean, ninety-five degrees and not a cloud dumb enough to offer mercy. The sun baked the concrete scar of the L.A. River basin until it shimmered like a bad alibi, a waterless waterway where careers went to rot. Officer Jane Law walked her beat through the heat haze, boots crunching grit and regret, every step a reminder of why she’d been exiled to this bone-dry purgatory. She’d followed a money trail too clean to be coincidence, too dirty to be legal, and it had led straight to the department’s polished brass shaking hands with mob grease. That kind of curiosity didn’t get you medals—it got you forgotten. She knew the only way out was something spectacular, the kind of mess nobody could ignore. That’s when she saw it a hundred yards ahead: a body sprawled like yesterday’s news, a knife standing proud in his chest, waiting for some lucky flatfoot to make sense of how Christmas had come early for one poor bastard.

By the book, she’d call it in and let the forensics boys do what they did best—muddy the water, lose the evidence, ship the stiff to the wrong slab so any future collar would walk on a technicality. But Jane wasn’t interested in losing this one. If she was going to climb out of the riverbed, she needed the only scientific mind in town sharp enough to read a corpse like a confession: Boris the pug. And Boris didn’t come alone. He came with Jonny M.—the one man who’d ever cracked her armor, whose touch could still turn her ice-cold blood into something reckless and alive. Jane scanned the empty stretch of concrete, heat waves dancing like ghosts, and knew there was no other play. She fished out her phone, dialed the operator, and swallowed hard before saying the last words she ever thought she’d say: “Connect me with the Jonny & Boris Detective Agency.”

The Protectors

Jonny was just cracking open the morning paper when Boris staggered out of the crime lab like a sailor off a week-long bender. The pug’s eyes were bloodshot from pulling an all-nighter with nothing but fluorescent lights and government-issue coffee to keep him company. The Feds had dumped a stack of anonymous death-threat letters on him—nasty business aimed at the newly announced Nobel Prize winners. Boris had worked the envelopes like a maestro, but the only thing he could pull from the saliva was the ghost of fast food: Big Macs and Filet-O-Fish fingerprints in biochemical form. He muttered something about cholesterol profiles and brand loyalty before face-planting onto the nearest chair.

Meanwhile, Jonny scanned the front page, brow furrowing at names he didn’t recognize—Barack Obama, Robert Fauci, and one Albert Einstine… Einsteen… some German egghead whose name looked like a winning Scrabble hand. But then his eyes snagged on a name he DID know, one that hit him like a thrown blackjack: Bro Joe, fresh winner of the Literature Prize for that book he’d written about the crackpots haunting the local Starbucks. Jonny shut the paper with a snap, marched to the old rolltop desk, and fished out a pair of dusty passports. He tossed one to Boris, who caught it like a man grabbing the last donut at a stakeout. “Pack your trench coat,” Jonny said. “We’re flying to Sweden. Those Nobel nerds don’t know it yet, but along with a certificate and a novelty-sized penny, they just won the two best bodyguards in the business.”

The Hair of My Chinny-Chin-Chin

Happy Decembeard! It’s an annual campaign where people grow beards (or fake beards) during December to raise money and awareness for bowel cancer, a serious but treatable disease, especially when caught early. Participants start clean-shaven on November 30th, grow their facial hair all December, and use it as a conversation starter to educate others about symptoms like changes in bowel habits and blood in stool.
Since those are Hack’s favorite topics of conversation throughout the year, it’s not a big deal to him, but we thought you’d like to know.

Murder in the Doritory

Before Boris could answer, there was a sharp rap on the dorm room door. He and Jonny quickly threw on their wigs and long nightgowns and gave each other the thumbs up that they could safely pass for their female alter egos “Jonna” and “Boreen’” The pug opened the door to find Chloé, the bespectacled brunette who had bonded with Jonna, shivering at the door wrapped in only a small bath towel.

“With all the murders going on in the dormitory,” she said to Boris, “I didn’t want to sleep alone tonight. Is it alright if I sleep with Jonna?” Then she turned to Jonny. “But I forgot to bring my nightie from the murder room, so I’ll have to cuddle up to you in the nude. Is that okay?”

Boris shot Jonny a concerned look. This would be crossing a serious ethical line, but by refusing her they might lose her hard-earned trust. But before the pug could say anything, his partner was already in bed, raising a corner of the blanket that beckoned the scantily clad beauty to join her confidante.

“Hop in,” said Jonna with a puzzling wolf-like grin.

Murder on the Greyhound Bus to Barstow

Jonny didn’t answer right away. He just struck a match on the toe of his shoe and lit a Lucky like he was auditioning for a cigarette ad. The smoke curled around his head like a noose waiting for the right neck. He looked out the window as the bus lurched forward, Van Nuys shrinking behind them like a bad alibi. But as Boris beheld the uncomfortable expression on the faces of the other passengers at their arrival, the little pug knew that the presence of a famous detective team wasn’t welcome. All of the travelers seemed out of place for the journey ahead: a sexy Hollywood movie star who brought six months’ worth of luggage for a three-hour bus tour, a washed-up pitcher in the majors who was trying to squeeze out one last season in the Barstow Winter Rookie League, a gorgeous heiress who every newspaper in the country was looking for since she disappeared to elope with the fortune hunter her billionaire father hated. Everyone on the bus had two things in common; a backstory which made their presence implausible and a noticeable shudder when they saw Jonny and Boris take their seats.

The only one who seemed happy that they were there was the obnoxious and mysterious bigshot that everyone on the bus had a grudge against. One look at him and it was Boris’ turn to shudder. He turned to Jonny and whispered, “there’s going to be a murder on this bus today…and they’re going to expect US to solve it.”

Cat Scratch Fever

It was three in the morning, the hour when the streetlights flicker like dying stars and the only things awake in Van Nuys are the rats, the sinners, and the poor mugs paid to clean up after them. Jonny M. swaggered onto the scene like he was arriving at a Hollywood premiere rather than a sidewalk soaked in yesterday’s blood. While he kept himself occupied tossing charm grenades at the gorgeous lady cop assigned to the case—Officer Jane Law, the kind of knockout who could stop traffic and maybe even a raging bull—Boris crouched over the mutilated stiff with an expression that would curdle fresh milk. The little pug detective’s face had never exactly been a picture of joy, but tonight it was uglier than a politician’s promise.

Boris didn’t need more than a glance to know what he was looking at. The deep lacerations ripping across the victim’s torso weren’t the work of some dime-store switchblade or a hopped-up mugger with brass knuckles. No—these were the calling cards of something far more primal. Razor-sharp claws. The kind only an angry tomcat could wield with enough fury to send a man to meet his maker early. The pug lit a cigarette, letting the smoke curl around his thoughts like a lazy fog creeping over a cemetery gate. He was just reaching for his magnifying glass when Jane Law strolled over, heels clicking like a countdown to doom.

“You can put that toy away, Boris,” she purred. “We’ve already got the culprit.” Boris looked up, squinting through a ribbon of smoke, and saw her holding a pair of heavy steel shackles. On the other end of them stood a sexy tomcat in a little black dress, wide-brim hat, and eyes wide with terror. But this wasn’t just any feline femme fatale—they’d dragged in Pussy, Boris’ own girlfriend. His Camel hung from the corner of his mouth as he took the longest, slowest drag of his life. This wasn’t just another corpse on just another crooked night in Van Nuys. This was a frame-up, and unless Boris could crack the case wide open, Pussy was headed straight for a date with the hangman’s noose.