The results of this month’s genre poll lingered with me longer than usual. Stepping away from a rigid schedule has its benefits, but it also leaves more room for everything to circle without getting settled. However, once I got back on track, I knew the first story, a Crime Caper, needed to center around control. Not the kind seized through force or speed, but the quieter kind earned through preparation, patience, and knowing exactly how scrutiny works.
Some places in the city close when the lights go out. Others simply change hands. Jessica’s bar belongs firmly in the latter category. Bottles remain lined up behind the counter, the books always balance, and nothing appears out of place unless you already know where to look. It’s a space defined by routine and restraint, the kind that doesn’t fear inspection because it was built to withstand it.
This story begins after last call, when an unwelcome knock brings questions that can’t be waved away with charm or small talk. What follows isn’t a chase or a shootout, but a slower, sharper contest played under dim lights. Paperwork replaces pistols. Procedure replaces panic. Every exchange becomes a test of composure, where the smallest details matter and patience is the real currency.
Last Call is a crime caper for readers who enjoy elegant misdirection, controlled tension, and stories where intelligence does the heavy lifting. The full tale is available exclusively to patrons, alongside my entire back catalog, for just $2 a month. If quiet confidence, calculated risk, and clever games of scrutiny are your kind of story, I’d love to have you join me behind the bar.
Jessica leaned over the counter, wiping the surface in slow, deliberate strokes as she moved down the length of the bar. As an alarm rang out from her pocket, she withdrew her phone. She took a steadying breath and dismissed the reminder without looking. With a sigh, she shoved it back into her pants as she continued wiping.
A knock echoed throughout the empty establishment.
With a slight smirk, she tossed the rag onto the countertop as she stepped out from behind the bar. Rounding the counter, her expression blanked before spotting a familiar figure through the glass. She hurried over and opened the door.
“Mr. Rickman, are you aware of the time?”
The private investigator tapped his bare wrist. “Last I checked, it was shortly after three in the morning.”
She looked past him and rubbed her neck. “What brings you all to my establishment after the last call? You’re certainly not here for happy hour. That ended long ago. And the next one won’t start for some time.”
Two city cops stepped beside the investigator, the nearer cop brandishing a piece of paper. “Are you Jessica Calhoun, the owner of this bar?”
“The last time I checked.” She nodded and moved back, gesturing for them to enter. “I’m sorry for the flippant response. It’s a default attitude. What can I do for you?”
“We possess a valid warrant,” he said, already stepping inside as he handed it to her.
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