Amazon Category:  Mystery/Suspense Publisher: SynergEbooks ISBN-10:  0744322049 Type: Fiction Pages: 249 Copyright: 2001/2015 ISBN-13: 9780744322040 Curly Morgan, Washington, DC. Private Investigator has escorted a lot of women on special assignment for the CIA and when someone starts murdering the ladies, Curly wonders if he will be next.  Curly Morgan, Washington, DC. Private Investigator had escorted a lot of women on special assignment for the CIA. When someone started murdering the ladies, Curly began to wonder if he would be next on the hit list. Did the CIA plan to terminate him like they did others that were no longer useful? Curly knew a lot of dirt on important people in high places, and in some cases, Curly was the dirt. He was surprised when a mysterious lady from out of his past hired him to follow her daughter…and became obsessed with him. What really blew Curly away was when he found out who murdered his girlfriends—and what was planned for him.   Excerpt Silent Obsession© by Chuck Kelly Chapter 1 It was springtime in Washington, D.C., 1975, the National Cheery Blossom Festival was in full bloom—and here I was in jail. The joint reeked of urine, cigarettes and body odor. I moved just in time to miss a stream that was aimed at my face. I jumped up off the damp cement floor and pushed the drunk towards a commode at the far corner of the Pennsylvania Avenue holding tank. A disturbed young man, he was still out of it from the night before. He staggered away mumbling to himself—his fly open, bloodstains and mucus all over the front of his trousers. There was no place to sit in the large dimly lit room except on the floor. Drunks who were sleeping it off took benches along the borders of the room. The rest wandered about aimlessly, complaining, fighting among themselves. Lost, betrayed men, their lives temporarily on hold—disillusioned by what they thought life should be. I’m Curly Morgan, a private investigator, licensed by the District of Columbia, coextensive with the city of Washington. I have my own detective agency in Washington D.C. and my office is located on Fourteenth Street near New York Avenue, NW. The building is occupied downstairs by clothing and paraphernalia stores. Upstairs a real estate broker shares an office with a lawyer down the hall from me on the second floor. I was born Charles Harold Morgan in Anadarko, Oklahoma, from a half-Cherokee Indian and half-Irish mother; my father was Irish and French. I’m in my mid-forties with curly brown hair and that’s why some people call me Curly. My laugh wrinkles are becoming my character lines, according to my girlfriends. I’m in fairly good shape because I walk a lot and workout occasionally. I’m single, have never been married and have no children that I know of. I’m curious by nature and I like my job. That’s the secret of being a good private detective. It was a beautiful day outside, and here I was in jail waiting for James Best to spring me. Best is a blood-sucking, candy-assed, Central Intelligence Agency officer, who is in charge of a select group of special agents who operate and gather intelligence exclusively in our nation’s capitol. I have done several jobs for James Best and the CIA boys. It burns him when I call his crew the CIA boys. He and his super-secret group try to be so cool—and Best is always fucking up. Seems like I’m constantly doing something to save his ass—and I really shouldn’t complain because he pays me well. Best is clever. He lives by his wits more than any person I know. He has always lived on the edge, using everyone else’s talent to get by. Born James Frances Best in Toledo, Ohio, he kept his middle name a secret for most of his life. The only reason I know it is because he showed his driver's license one night when he was drunk. He wanted to prove to me that he was smarter because he was older than I was. He won, and I have that secret to hold over him for the rest of his life. His father worked as a policeman in Toledo. James always wanted to become a cop, but as he got older he found out that policemen don’t make a lot of money. Government law enforcement officers generally do make more money, so that is where he directed his career. He attended the Ohio University, got himself a BA in business administration and a commission as an ensign in the U.S. Navy. While he was in the service he met an agent with the CIA who hired him to escort women who were visiting with foreign dignitaries in Washington, D.C. Best had little charm, less social skills and he struck out fast. He wanted desperately to stay with the CIA so he looked around until he found someone with charm that could handle that kind of assignment. That’s where I came into the picture. I found out later that the CIA boys had checked me out pretty thoroughly for about six weeks before Best approached me. My first assignment was to escort the niece of the Ambassador to Brazil to a private function at the Hilton hotel. Best had found his calling with the CIA as a coordinator. I blended in as a well-paid escort for his domestic intelligence gathering activities. Working with Best and his CIA boys has turned out to be an invaluable connection in the ever-changing power structure of Washington, D.C. I remember Best’s first words to me, “You want to make some extra money, sailor?” He looked at me, sizing me up, watching my expressions to catch my reactions. I told him I was interested. How much money and what did I have to do to earn it? He said, “Escort a lady to a fancy affair at one of the big hotels. We want somebody who is sharp, clean-cut, charming, and who doesn’t drink too much.” He watched my expressions. I must have made the right body language because he said, “I’ll pay you twenty bucks cash for the night. All other expenses are paid. All you have to do is escort the lady to this big affair with her relatives...and goddamit, be a gentleman.” I remember his expression changed when he said, “Now, I want you to get this straight, and don’t ever repeat it to anyone, because if you do, I never said it: I want you to get in her pants if you can...you know, I want you to take her to bed—have sex with her. I want you to be discreet about it, and report back to me when you’re through.” I figured, what the hell, and took the job. He paid me in advance, and then warned me: “If anything goes wrong, I don’t know you. I never heard of you. You don’t even know what the CIA stands for. You’re just a sailor out having a good time.” He added with a cold stare, “I don’t owe you jack shit.” I understood the rules and decided to play the game. That was how my part-time career began with the CIA. And here I was in jail...and I was getting antsy. The sour smell was one thing that really got to me. I dusted off my English tweed coat and slapped at the matching trousers. When I can afford it I have my clothing tailored at Melena’s, the best in Washington, D.C. I like for my clothes to fit like a comfortable glove on my one hundred eighty-five-pound body. I was getting more spooked by the minute. I noticed a thin-faced man standing nearby, his dark, hollow eyes on my new shoes. His soiled clothing hung loosely on his undernourished body. I found a dry spot and sat down on the floor near the darkest corner of the large room and ignored him. That’s when he made his move. He ran at me and slid feet first, threw one leg over both of mine and began untying my shoes! His dark eyes concentrated on what he was doing. His mouth dripped thick saliva and his long dirty fingers moved quickly, desperate for the prize. The sour odor from his body was almost unbearable. “You dumb son of a bitch!” I yelled. I yanked my other foot free and shoved it into his back to push him away. It didn’t phase him. He kept tugging on my shoe, twisting it, determined. I doubled my fist and came down hard on his bony backside. He was tough, wiry. I could tell he had been on the streets a long time. Nothing seemed to phase him. Only now, the heel of my shoe had slipped from my foot! This was one crazy son of a bitch! He twisted the shoe in one practiced motion—and the shoe came off in his hand. He grunted and turned. His long black-tipped fingers reached greedily for the other shoe and I kicked out at him. Like an experienced wrestler, he wrapped his arm securely around my outstretched foot, held it close to his body and began to pull off the other shoe. “I don’t believe this!” I cried, moving, gyrating, anything to be free of this persistent maniac. I felt the shoe come off and the man jumped up quickly to run away. “Not this time, pal!” I cried, slamming my foot into the man’s ankle, tripping him. When he fell, he held the new shoes close to his chest, protecting them from the fall. This guy was really weird. He grunted and spit at me, then scrambled to his feet. This time I was up and on him. I grabbed his arm and could feel the grime with my fingers. My other hand swung quickly, slapping him with my open palm. Stunned, the man dropped the shoes—and then he went for them again. Slobbering like a mad man, his eyes locked on the shiny leather. His greasy long hair fell into his eyes and he pushed it away with dirty fingers. Nothing else mattered to this poor soul except my shoes. I guess he thought they would fit, and as far as he was concerned, they were already his. My heart was pumping hard, adrenaline flowed through my body. I poised, ready to strike him again. The man reached up under the long mass of stringy hair, pulled out something and turned to face me. I saw a single-edged razor blade between his right thumb and index finger. “Whoa!” I cried, changing my stance. “I kill you!” he cried, striking out at me. The razor caught me on the arm and sliced through my sleeve. “Why, you creepy—! This is a good suit!” I yelled, side-stepping the second slash of the razor. I spun around, kicking out from behind; my heel caught him in the stomach. Turning again, my clenched fist came down hard on his cheek. I heard the crunch of bone as I broke his jaw, then stepped back to let him fall. I reached down and picked up my shoes. “Like I said, not this time, pal,” I panted, out of breath. I thought I was in better shape. Several men stood by watching. Their eyes filled with excitement from the violence. One of the men, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the floor, bolted to the downed man and grabbed the razor blade. He started to run away when I caught him. “Gimme that,” I said, twisting the blade from the man’s clammy hand. “Go on, all of you!” I waved my arms at the men. I was mad as hell and they knew it. They began to disperse and walked away slowly. I walked to the corner of the room and sat down once again. My heart was still pumping hard from all the excitement as I put on my shoes. “Creepy bastards!” I mumbled and snarled at a man who lingered close by. He was dressed in ragged blue jeans, print shirt and scuffed tennis shoes. He was probably in his early thirties, still young, but not new to the streets. He had that look in his pathetic eyes that I didn’t like. “Go on! Get outa here!” I yelled at him. He turned and was soon lost among the others. “Well, if it isn’t the private detective, sitting here with all his friends,” a voice blurted out nearby. “Having fun, Morgan?” I looked up to see Houlihan, a uniformed policeman, standing nearby. He was the arresting officer who had busted me a few hours earlier. A stocky guy, Houlihan had blond hair and a pair of hard set b-b eyes. He doesn’t like me. He doesn’t like private detectives, period. I finished tying my shoe, picked up the razor blade and tossed it to Houlihan. “Here,” I said, a smile in my eyes. “I found this.” Houlihan automatically snapped at the object thrown to him with an open hand, and regretted it immediately. “You bastard!” he hissed, blood rushing from his fingers. “I’ll get you for this, Morgan.” “Just doin’ my duty,” I said, still smiling. I loved messing with him because he thought he was so tough. “Razor blades aren’t allowed in jail, are they, Houlihan?” I stood up and faced him. I expected him to throw a punch, but he didn’t. I wished he had. “Your bail’s been paid. Get the hell outa here before I do something real bad.” Houlihan wrapped a handkerchief around the cut and made a fist. He wore a short-sleeved police uniform shirt and I could see the muscles in his forearm tighten. His eyes narrowed. The veins stood out on his face and neck as he watched me leave the area. When I was almost to the barred door of the holding tank I nodded toward the would-be shoe thief and said, “There’s a guy over there. I think he fell down.” I made my way to the front desk through a maze of barred doors, and picked up my personal belongings at the discharge desk. The atmosphere was already changing for the better. The clerk was one of the good guys. He smiled when he saw me. “I figured it was you when I saw Houlihan this morning. He don’t come here ‘less it’s to fuck with somebody.” The clerk’s neatly pressed uniform displayed a Washington, D.C. policeman’s badge, an American flag over his sergeant’s stripes and hash marks that said he had been on the force for eighteen years. He was in his mid forties, a ruddy-faced, sandy-haired Irishman that enjoyed the security of his police desk job. “I figured that,” I said, signing my release. “He doesn’t like PI’s too well. Personally, I think he’s jealous.” The clerk laughed. “I hear that.” He took the form and shuffled it in with others. “See you around, Morgan. Hope it’s at the bar over on Fourteenth Street and not here.” “You got that,” I said, then left. When I walked out onto the street the brightness of the sunlight hit me and I had to squint a few times. The air definitely changed for the better. I could breathe now without the rankness from the jail. My mouth felt thick, like I’d eaten a handful of sandy dog hair, and I wanted coffee...badly. I took a cab to the Miller building on Seventeenth Street NW, a contact point for Best’s agents. The Miller building had two stories and was made of reinforced concrete, like so many government and other buildings are in D.C. They are usually clean and surrounded by copious trees of every description. The lawns are always lush green in the spring. There was a sign outside in bold lettering that read Miller Insurance Company of America. A nifty cover for anything, really. Security at the front desk was tight. You couldn’t get past the security guards without a pass, or someone within who OK’d your admittance. Best had arranged it so that all I had to do was wave at them and I could enter. No one knew what my business was, but figure it was something heavy or I wouldn’t be there. I didn’t have to go through the issue-me-a-pass bullshit every time. I went to James Best’s office down the hall on the first floor. I ignored his receptionist, walking past her and entered Best’s private office without knocking. This always drove her batso. She’s a good kid, just trying to do her job, but today I was in no mood for her display of efficiency. Cathy Newman is her name. “Cathy with a ‘C,’” she told me when we first met a few years ago. She had an attractive slender body, pretty face with pouty lips. She was in her late thirties, single, and usually friendly. But at the moment I wasn’t interested in being friendly. I just wanted to see her boss. “What the hell happened last night?” James Best asked, turning in his swivel chair when I entered his office. Best is in his early forties, a little smaller than me, athletic, straight gray hair, a square jaw and small shifty eyes—the acute paranoia that goes along with the job when you work for the Central Intelligence Agency. “You better start screening the punks you get to work these jobs,” I said, looking him in the eye. My Indian and Irish blood hot in my veins. I slid into a leather-upholstered chair, a frown on my face. I was at the peak of my don’t-fuck-with-me mood. James Best laughed nervously. I often called him Lieutenant Best, a carry-over from our navy days when we worked together. He was a Lieutenant J.G. and I was a Seaman First Class. Being an enlisted man, I had to salute him, and it always made me giggle—and that really pissed him off. His office looked like a typical government employee’s office. It was moderately furnished, lined with books on two walls with a small conference table in the center of the room. The large oak desk was near a window with a backdrop of rich green trees and pristine office buildings. He came around his desk and sat in another leather-upholstered chair and said, “What do you mean? Why, Simpson is one of our very best. He...” “He sucks! He reminds me of you when you first hired me. He’s all jock, no brains, and he drinks too much. The asshole got us into a street fight outside the Hilton Hotel, just like you did a few years ago...that got me thrown in jail.” I glared at him a moment. Memories of his drunken form swinging wildly at nothing flashed in my mind. I remember how I stepped in and pulled him off of a man he had attacked. I came back to the present and said, “Simpson picked the fight, then ran away, the punk. I took up the fight and Houlihan busted me.” James Best laughed heartily, his face flush. “So, he likes to have a little fun...like we used to. Yeah, Easy Money?” “I don’t call street fighting and going to jail, fun, Best. Get somebody else to baby sit your punks and get somebody else for your fucking romance gigs. It isn’t ‘easy money,’ like your Neanderthal mentality suggests. I don’t need it, Best. I got better things to do.” I stood and started for the door. Turning, I said, “Send me a check in the mail. To date you owe me five hundred dollars. You’re behind one payment.” “Wait a minute, Morgan!” Best cried, chasing after me. “You owe me a report. I pay good money for your services and I expect...” “I’ll mail it to you,” I said, opening the door, “after I get the check.” “Wait, goddamit!” Best yelled at me. “Shut the door and let’s talk. I need you on this case. The lady you were with last night, likes you.” Something inside me softened. I turned, my mood changed a little. I tried to hide my feelings when I said, “Really?” I do have a passion for women. That is my one weakness in life and Best knew he had me. But, it is for this reason that he hires me on these special assignments. The thing that best cannot understand is why are women attracted to me. I don’t know either, but it’s usually true. It could be the combination of my Indian and Irish blood that attracts them, I don’t know. I think it’s my attitude. I genuinely like women and they sense this. You might call it an understanding I have with the opposite sex. Women like to be respected and when I honor this, they always respond. This is not to say some women don’t like me. Whoa! I’ve had a few that hated my guts. But that’s life. Sometimes you win, other times you don’t get that dance at the prom. The case I was working on now was to escort a diplomat’s sister from Costa Rica. She was highly influential over her brother and I was asked to wine and dine the twenty-three year-old beauty, and if at all possible, “...take her to bed, Morgan. Make her fall in love with you. Get inside her head like you know how to do. We need more allies in that area because of its location in Central America,” James Best had told me. I am usually paid by the day plus all expenses for as long as the clients are in town. I try to collect before the bill gets too high. It could be risky business trying to collect on an expense account that doesn’t exist. So far, I have never been stiffed. I think Best knows that if he ever tried to pull anything like that on me, I would tell his mother. “Did she tell you personally that she likes me?” I asked, closing the door behind me when I came back into the room. I sat on the corner of the conference table, my leg dangling comfortably. “I got the report halfway through dinner. Christ, she was all over you, from what Simpson said. Couldn’t wait to get you upstairs and into bed.” Best paused, lit a cigarette, coughed, and continued. “Her brother apparently likes you—thinks you’re some kind of a diplomatic genius—and wants to talk to our Big Boys about a private deal between Costa Rica and the U.S.—which doesn’t concern you. Again, everyone makes out. I don’t know how you do it, Easy Money. I never did.” “So she likes me,” I said a smile on my face. It always makes me feel good to know I’m doing a good job. I guess everyone wants to hear that. “I wasn't too sure after the way her brother looked at me when we were dancing after dinner.” “He loved whatever you did, Romeo. In fact, there’s a message here for you to call her for lunch today. It’s her treat.” Best went to his desk and handed me the message. “You’re still on the job, Easy Money.” I picked up the message, pocketed it and said, “Five hundred extra ain’t bad either–and that’s what I want.” “Five hundred!” Best yelled, his face flush. “Why, you cheap whore! You’re getting paid to sleep with a woman—and you want more fucking money? Come on! Get real!” Best was totally pissed—and I loved it. I stood up and turned toward the door. “I don’t like that creep Simpson you had on the job last night. He got me thrown in jail. For that little action, I get the five hundred for a new suit, or I walk.” I held out my arm to show him the sleeve that had been cut. “You low-life piece of shit!" Best hissed, clenching his fists. He knew I had him. “You get paid for getting laid...” “Hey, be nice. I’m just an ordinary guy trying to make a buck.” The intercom buzzed. It was like the bell at the end of a round. We both relaxed. Best punched a button. “Yeah?” “You workin’ on that Costa Rica job?” a gruff male voice asked over the phone speaker. “The sister of that Costa Rican diplomat, a Ms. Carmenta Armato?” “Yeah, why?” “Broad’s been aced. Hit by a car in the crosswalk in front of her hotel. Happened this morning, sometime.”

Silent Obsession
SILENT OBSESSION
by Chuck Kelly
Reviewed by Lisa Hurley

Rating – Four Stars

In Washington, D.C., deceit, intrigue, sex, and power go hand-in-hand. And they keep Curly Morgan, P.I. in business. Working on the side with the CIA, Curly gets into the heads and beds of influential women. When his contracts start coming up dead, Curly is backed against the wall and running out of time to solve the mystery. Can he solve the crimes before the murderer gets him?

Mr. Kelly has written a powerful suspense novel. Written in a “Dick Tracy” style, Silent Obsession will keep you holding your breath with its many plot twists and turns. Both well-written and edited, this book will keep you up in suspense all night turning pages. It’s definitely a keeper.


Silent Obsession
Book Review for Silent Obsession

I did finish the book and really, really enjoyed it.
I was very impressed, too, with your research and detail-- who was wearing what, streets
and sites visited in the story, etc. ( I remember feeling that way when I read "Laguna Heat"
by T. Jefferson Parker and could place myself in south Orange County.) Nice job, ol' buddy!

Reviewed by Robert Crittendon, Event chair , Publicity coordinator at San Clemente Military Family. Feb 14, 2016


Silent Obsession
Book Review
“Silent Obsession”
by Chuck Kelly
Reviewed by Linda
Book review and interview featured in Ebook Junction

A fast-paced novel centering around a private investigator, Curly Morgan, “Silent Obsession” presents a slant to the expected detective story.

While serving in the Navy, Curly is approached by a fellow service member who was working with the CIA. He is recruited as an escort to ladies accompanying visiting dignitaries. A handsome guy who always had a way with the ladies, he fits into his role easily. On the surface he is only an escort but secretly he was expected to sweep them off their feet, hopefully into bed. Once that is accomplished he was to glean as much information as possible from them. Once he leaves the military he sets up business as a PI, working on a shoestring.

He is approached by a potential client, ex-Naval officer, Captain Meyers, to help him locate the whereabouts of his son. Curly is successful and even though the news is that the son has died, Captain Meyers is grateful. He tells Curly that he looks on him as a son and offers to be his partner. Curly takes him up on this and is then financially able to enhance his PI business.

Deaths begin occurring to the women Curly has been escorting. Weird circumstances surround the deaths and Curly begins his investigation into how it is all linked back to him.

Who may be targeting him? What is the purpose of the women’s deaths? The reader will find the obvious is not necessarily the truth and Curly’s past along with his formed relationships all play parts in unraveling the mystery.

Kelly does a great job in expanding the character of Curly, giving the reader an insight into his personality beyond the surface. The action scenes are well written and easily visible in the mind's eye. Although hints and clues are presented to veer the reader to the origin of the murders, they are not glaring enough to convince the reader of anything but that the obvious will happen. For those readers who do not want to figure out “who dunnit” until the latter part of the story, “Silent Obsession” is right up that alley and will be enjoyed.