See? I’m writing a mystery, too.
But I can’t put mine in my contest.
I wrote this rough draft Thursday morning, but I need a good name for my detective. Wanna help?
Read the scene below and think of what a good name for this guy (currently called “Sergio Martin” for no good reason) would be.
Best answer gets the name they pick used in the story, and a mention by me in the book’s acknowledgements!
Sweeping his hand across her cheek to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, Sergio Martin lowered his lips to kiss the beautiful blonde in front of him.
The phone in his pocket buzzed.
He winced. “Do you believe that crap?”
The woman pulled him close, brushing her nose against his. “Ignore it.”
“Yeah. Can’t.” He sighed, digging into his pocket. “Duty calls.”
“Are you sure?” She leaned back on the couch, placing an elbow on the armrest and winding a finger into her hair. “Things were getting interesting.”
Martin stood, patting his pocket. “I’m pretty sure I can’t ignore this one. It’s my work phone.”
“Would there have been a good time to interrupt this?” He pulled the phone from his pocket and mashed a button. “Detective Martin here.”
Plucking an empty wine glass off the end table, the woman sauntered across the living room to the small kitchen.
Martin pressed the phone to his ear as he flicked on a lamp. “Port of Tampa, pier thirty-one warehouse.” He scribbled a few notes on a pad. “How many bodies?”
His date leaned on the counter and took a sip of her wine.
“Okay, got it.” Martin nodded, shoving the pad in his back pocket. “Can you call Detective Sanderson for me? Tell her I’m leaving my house right now I’ll be there at the port in about fifteen minutes.” He ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket.
“Okay if I let myself out? I’ve had a few drinks and don’t feel like driving.”
“Stay as long as you like. Finish the bottle.” Martin grabbed his gun and wallet. “My wife won’t be back until tomorrow night.”
“You got yourself a deal.” She picked up the bottle of Asti and poured a glass. The tiny golden bubbles raced to the top of the glass but didn’t go past the rim. As Martin picked his car keys up off the end table and headed for the door, she raised her drink and winked. “Hurry back.”
He smiled. “Lady, you’re about to see record speed police work.” Yanking open the front door, he darted out, shoving the door so it would shut behind him.