A Sneak Peak: The Beginning

In No Rest for the Wicked, the gripping first installment of the Max West series, readers are thrust into a world where the boundaries between the living and the dead blur ominously. In this early snippet, private investigator Max West grapples with his past and an unsettling murder case that defies explanation. As he investigates the dark underbelly of his city, supernatural forces begin to reveal themselves, leading Max to question everything he knows about justice—and his own humanity. With chilling revelations and heart-pounding suspense, this tale sets the stage for a haunting journey that promises no rest for those who dare to uncover the truth.

It’s late, and the air is thick tonight in Vegas, heavy with the scent of heat-baked asphalt and the stale perfume of the Strip. The neon hums above the city like an electric halo, casting long, garish shadows over the sidewalks. Even at this hour, the streets are alive—tourists stumbling between casinos, impatient Uber drivers honking at jaywalkers, and lost souls drifting in and out of the glow, tethered to these streets like ghosts that don’t know they’re dead.

I steer clear of the Strip. Most locals do. There’s an unspoken pride in it, a silent nod between those of us who grew up here and never got swallowed by the spectacle. If you were born and raised in Vegas and managed to carve out a life without getting sucked into the high-stakes churn of the city, it was a small badge of honor. The implants, though—they weren’t so lucky.

Implants. Not the kind you might expect, though there are plenty of those too, bouncing and swaying under the glow of LED billboards. No, Vegas implants are the people who ended up here for reasons they probably never planned. Some tried to make it in L.A. and found out they weren’t special enough for Hollywood, rolling their disappointment down I-15 until they landed here. Others got lost in the game—blackjack, poker, sports betting, it didn’t matter. They lost more than they won, then lost again trying to win it back, and now they’re bound to the city, working odd jobs, dealing cards, or running hustles to keep their heads above water. Vegas doesn’t let go easy.

I was thinking about all this as I drifted on the edge of sleep, stretched out on my well-worn couch. The apartment below mine was alive with its usual soundtrack—the couple downstairs arguing, voices rising and falling in that familiar cadence. The accusations, the yelling, the heavy silences in between. Eventually, it would transition into the making-up phase, a process that typically lasted at least twenty-five minutes and was, unfortunately, just as loud.

I had just started slipping into the black when my phone buzzed against the coffee table.

I ignored it.

Then it buzzed again.

And again.

With a sigh, I dragged myself up, the room tilting slightly as I reached for the phone. In the process, my hand caught the edge of a white takeout container, sending the remnants of my earlier meal tumbling onto the floor.

“Shit!”

Lo mein. Now congealing into an unfortunate mess on my carpet. That was going to be a problem for future Max. Present Max had to deal with whoever thought it was a good idea to call him three times in a row in the middle of the damn night.

I squinted at the screen.

Jerry.

With another sigh, I swiped to answer.

“What is it? I’m trying to sleep.”

“Sleep? Seems a bit early in the night for that, Maxie Boy.”

“Don’t call me that. And I’ve earned some rest. Spent all week helping Benny at the gym.”

Benny. The man who raised me after my parents disappeared. He ran Kings & Queens Gym over on South Rainbow Drive. A place for fighters, both the professional kind and the ones just trying to keep their demons at bay.

“Yeah, yeah. I heard Benny got some new equipment this week. Sprucing things up over there. Must be getting some real heavy hitters.”

“Jerry, what do you want? I’m tired, and I have to clean up the lo mein you made me spill.”

“You gotta stop eating that shit. That’s why you aren’t a heavy hitter no more.”

“How dare you?” I said, clutching my imaginary pearls. “That was going to be my breakfast, too. Instead, you’re going to have to bring me donuts.”

“Somethin’ wrong with you, man. That’s no way to live.”

“Look, is there a reason for this call, or are you just waking me up to critique my diet?”

Jerry sighed, then his voice dropped a little, took on that serious edge he got when things weren’t just casual bullshit.

“Yeah. I picked up a guy tonight. Talkin’ real weird. Right up your alley. Figured you oughta come by and hear what he has to say.”

Now that got my attention.

Jerry was a bail bondsman. Officially, he was Jerome St. Pierre, a Haitian implant sent to Vegas as a kid to live with his aunt after she got into some trouble down in Louisiana. I’d met him at Benny’s gym when we were both teenagers, and we’d been thick as thieves ever since. Most people called him The Saint. I called him Jerry.

“Weird how?” I asked, rubbing a hand over my face.

“Weird like... not right in the head, but not in the usual way. I know the guy a bit, and while he’s….extra at times…this is a bit more than the usual. Kept talking about something coming for him, about ghosts and weird shit.”

“Alright, Jerry. I’ll be over in a bit. Let me clean up my dinner and what would have been breakfast.”

Jerry chuckled. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

I ended the call and looked down at the lo mein mess.

“Sorry, buddy. Looks like you and I are parting ways sooner than planned.”

I grabbed a few paper towels, did a half-assed job of cleaning up the worst of it, and threw on some jeans and a fresh shirt. The city outside my window pulsed with life. The Strip, the side streets, the alleyways. Vegas never slept, and neither, it seemed, would I.

With a final glance at my apartment, I grabbed my keys and headed out the door.

Something told me this night was just getting started.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

Jerry’s office is on South 3rd Street, nestled among the many courthouses of Vegas, just a stone’s throw from Fremont Street. The drive up from my place takes me past the Strip, and while I’ve never had much interest in Vegas’s games, I still enjoy the sight of it at night. The lights from the highway make it look like some kind of magical wonderland, a mirage of endless possibility. But beneath all that glitter is something darker—the sad stories of lost souls wandering from one casino to the next, hoping to catch that elusive jackpot, hoping for salvation that never comes.

I pull into Jerry’s lot and make my way into his office building. It’s a quiet night on 3rd Street, quieter than most. Just a few loiterers outside—some recently released, others waiting for someone still inside.

“Alright, Jerry, I’m here. Who’s so important that I had to drag myself out here?”

Jerry’s office isn’t what you’d imagine for a bail bondsman. It’s cozy, comfortable. Soft lighting, plush chairs, a bubbling fountain in the lobby. He’s got one of those aromatherapy diffusers, so it always smells fresh. In the back, there’s a huge TV where he catches fights and Golden Knights games. And best of all, a fridge stocked with sodas, water, and my personal favorite—Klondike Bars.

I grab one and sink into my favorite gray chair.

“A journalist. Bobby Austin. Does fluff pieces for the local paper.”

I take a bite. “Fluff pieces?”

“Cat shows. Kid heroes. Stuff for grandmas.”

“So why’s he my problem?”

Jerry leans forward. “He got picked up tonight, drunk and disorderly. Called me for bail. And he’s been talking about things in your lane.”

I finish my Klondike, ball up the wrapper. “Alright. Let’s see him.”

Jerry led me down the dimly lit hallway, the carpet underfoot worn from years of nervous pacing and unsteady footsteps. The air here was tinged with the scent of stale cigarettes, cheap cologne, and the unmistakable musk of desperation. These rooms weren’t meant for comfort; they were holding pens for the lost, the drunk, and the unlucky.

He stopped at a door, pulling out a key and unlocking it with a quiet click. Pushing it open, the unmistakable smell of Southern Comfort hit me like a punch. It mixed with the lingering scent of cleaning solution and body odor, creating a cocktail that made my stomach turn, especially on top of my recently devoured Klondike bar.

Inside, Bobby Austin sat slouched in a metal chair, elbows resting on a flimsy wooden table. His wire-rimmed glasses, slightly bent, teetered on the bridge of his nose, and his disheveled beard made him look a decade older than he probably was. His gray slacks had seen better days, and the cream-colored button-up he wore was wrinkled beyond saving. He looked like a man who had been chewed up and spat out by Vegas more times than he could count.

Jerry folded his arms and nodded toward me. “Hey, Bobby, this is a friend of mine, Max. Why don’t you tell him what you’ve been goin’ on and on about?”

Bobby lifted his head, bloodshot eyes narrowing as he regarded me with suspicion. “Why? So he can roll his eyes at me like everyone else?”

“Hey, pal,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. “I’ve heard and seen some crazy stuff in my day. Why don’t you try me?”

Bobby scoffed. “’Cuz I’m not interested in bein’ made fun of, that’s why! I’m a professional, and I don’t deserve any…hic…any of this.”

I exchanged a glance with Jerry. “Alright, Bobby. Start at the beginning. Tell me what happened.”

———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

“I was on assignment over at the Davenport estate to write a fluff piece honoring the late artist Adrian Devine for the paper.”

“Devine, that sounds familiar. Why do I know that name?”

“You don’t seem like much of an art lover, so I would imagine it’s from his untimely murder that made headlines ten years ago.”

“First of all, how dare you assume I don’t appreciate the arts? You don’t look like much of an artiste either. Second of all, why would the Davenports have anything to do with a murdered artist?”

“They have the largest private collection of his works. When he was alive, he was considered a close personal friend of the Davenport family. There were rumors that perhaps he was a bit too close with Erin Davenport, but that’s just a rumor. So, as I was saying, I was at the Davenports doing a fluff piece on Adrian Devine…”

“Aren’t the Davenports notoriously private? I’m surprised they’d let a reporter onto the grounds, let alone talk to one.”

“They are private. But the matriarch is determined to change their public image. It was her idea to do the piece on Adrian.”

“So the matriarch, which is who again?”

“Margaret Davenport. She’s a real nightmare if she doesn’t get her way. My editor wasn’t too excited to have to take her call and honestly didn’t want to do the piece, but nobody says no to Margaret Davenport.”

“Okay, so Margaret Davenport calls the paper to have someone do a piece on Adrian Devine, and that’s where you come in.”

“Wow, a real gumshoe you are. Isn’t that what I’ve been saying?!”

“Look, pal, it’s late. I was halfway to dreamland when Jerry called me. Excuse me if I’m trying to keep straight the drunk ramblings of some two-bit reporter.”

“You know what, fuck this. I don’t need this shit! I’m going home.”

It was at this point that Jerry, who had remained silent for this exchange, finally spoke up. “Sit down, Bobby. The only person in this town who can help you, let alone believe you, is Max. Just sit down and answer his questions.”

Bobby sat down. In Bobby’s defense, anybody would. I don’t know anyone who would turn down Jerry. He’s very persuasive—not that he needs to be. Jerry is dark as night and always expressionless. The type of guy whose height and build are irrelevant because his presence and attitude fill a room in themselves.

“Look, Bobby, I’m sorry. You caught me in a bad mood is all. Tell me what happened. I’m listening.”

“Fine. I was at the Davenports doing this fluff Devine piece. I had gotten the interview portion with Mrs. Davenport done for the most part and was walking around the premises with her, taking photos of Devine’s work in the house.”

“All of this sounds pretty run-of-the-mill boring so far.”

“That’s because I haven’t told you the terrifying part. Later, I headed back to the office to get the photos on the drive and ready for print and start writing the piece. I noticed after the pictures were downloaded that each one of them had changed.”

“What do you mean they’d changed?”

“I mean they’d changed! Devine’s work all features families with kids playing around in various sceneries. Ya know, like at the beach, in a park, at a fair, etc. Anyway, the boys were missing in every photo.”

“Are you sure there is a boy in the paintings?”

“Positive.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because I saw the paintings with my own eyes, and I compared the photos of the paintings with the original works online, and the boy is missing in every single photo.”

“Are you sure your photos aren’t corrupted or just maybe not good pics?”

“I’m positive! I even have a second set of the pictures on a personal drive at my place.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“Because I have no doubt this is some sort of fucked-up shit related to the murder of Devine. Which means the cops will find out and get their hands on these photos and me probably to shut me up.”

“Paranoid a bit, isn’t he?” I asked Jerry, who shrugged.

“Fuck you, man, I know what I’m talking about!”

“Alright, alright, calm down. Let’s back up a second. When you were at the estate, did anything feel… off?”

Bobby hesitated, rubbing his face with both hands before answering. “At first, no. But as I was walking around taking pictures, I got this weird feeling, like I was being watched. Not by Mrs. Davenport—by something else. The air in that house felt heavy, like it was pressing down on my chest. You ever feel that?”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’ve felt that before.”

Bobby exhaled sharply, relieved. “Good. Thought I was losing it. Then, when I was taking photos of a painting in the upstairs hallway—this one showed a family having a picnic—I swear to God, I saw movement. Just out of the corner of my eye. Like the figures in the painting were shifting.”

“Shifting how?” I leaned forward slightly, intrigued now.

“The mother’s expression. It changed. It was subtle, but when I looked back at my camera screen, her face was… different. Like she was staring right at me instead of looking down at the picnic basket.”

A chill ran up my spine. “Did Mrs. Davenport say anything?”

“She didn’t notice. Or at least she pretended not to. She just kept talking about Devine’s ‘legacy’ and what an honor it was to showcase his work.” Bobby scoffed. “Felt more like she was trying to convince herself.”

“What happened after you left?”

“Nothing at first. I went back to the office, plugged in my camera, and started transferring the files. That’s when I saw the missing boys.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t some kind of technical glitch?”

Bobby shook his head vehemently. “No way. The images were perfect—clear as day. But every single one of Devine’s paintings had been altered. The boys were gone. Not just missing—gone, like they’d never been there in the first place. And the mothers in the paintings? They looked… wrong. Like they were grieving something.”

Jerry finally spoke up again. “And you think this has to do with Devine’s murder?”

Bobby nodded. “I don’t just think—I know. Devine wasn’t just painting families. He was painting something else. Something buried in those images.”

I leaned back, considering his words. If Bobby was right, then this was more than just a fluff piece gone wrong. Something was hiding in Devine’s work. And I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like what I found.

“Alright,” I said finally. “Let’s see these photos for ourselves.”

Bobby swallowed hard. “Yeah. About that… my laptop’s at my place. But my office computer? It crashed. Completely fried. Like something didn’t want me looking at those pictures.”

Jerry and I exchanged a glance.

“Well,” I said, standing. “Looks like we’re taking a field trip.”

———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

Bobby’s place was a trailer on the outskirts of town, sitting lopsided on cinder blocks. The place was messy but not dirty—papers stacked haphazardly, half-empty coffee mugs, clothes draped over furniture. Bobby fumbled with his keys and let us in. He booted up his laptop and pulled up the photos. Sure enough, the boys were missing, and the women looked grief-stricken. He then showed us the original works online, proving the changes.

I exhaled. “Alright, this is interesting. But where do I come in? I haven’t been hired for anything, and I don’t specialize in art crimes.”

“This is a cover-up,” Bobby muttered, pacing. “Devine was murdered, and I bet the goddamn LVPD helped bury it.”

I folded my arms. “That’s a big accusation.”

“Yeah? Well, I’ve seen how they operate. Corrupt as hell. They didn’t investigate Devine’s murder properly. The whole thing was wrapped up too fast.”

Jerry leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. “Corrupt cops? No surprise. But we don’t have much to go on.”

Bobby pointed at the screen. “This is something. Devine was painting families, but maybe he was painting something else, something someone didn’t want seen.”

Jerry sighed. “Max, don’t you got a cop friend? Maybe he knows something.”

I frowned. “Flip? He’s not exactly a friend.”

Jerry smirked. “Yeah, well, I don’t like him. But he owes you, doesn’t he?”

I exhaled. “Yeah, he does.”

Bobby looked at me expectantly. “So?”

“So,” I said, “I’ll see what I can dig up. But, given that it is well past my bedtime, I’m going home to sleep. It’s been real, it’s been fun, but it has not been real fun. Nice to meet you Bobby, try to loosen up a bit. Jer…you owe me breakfast don’t forget.”