Johnathan Noire: private eye (book 1)

They say love is dead. I say it ghosted you first and left you on read.

I’m Johnathan Noire. Private eye. Relationship realist. And today, I’m sucking on a cherry lollipop like it’s the only sweet thing left in this bitter city.

The dating scene? A warzone. Women say men are the problem. Men say women want too much. Me? I say nobody’s listening, and that’s where I come in.

I solve things people pretend aren’t broken. Marriages have gone cold. Lovers who vanish without a goodbye. Apps full of promises that turn into alibis.

So when a woman walks into my office claiming her fiancé ghosted her a week before the wedding—with the honeymoon already paid for—I don’t flinch.

I just take the case.

Because someone’s gotta get to the bottom of why love keeps slipping through the cracks. Even if it costs me my life—or worse... another bad date.

They say love is dead. I say it faked its death and skipped town.

I’m Johnathan Noire. Private eye. And yeah—I get it. Most guys in my line of work smoke. Not me. I carry cherry lollipops like little red reminders that life still has flavor, even if everything else tastes like betrayal.

I was sitting in my office above the old pawn shop on East Main Street, staring out at the rain-streaked windows of downtown Waterbury. Same view I’ve had for ten years. A city is trying real hard to forget its past, and is doing a lousy job of it.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number. That’s never good news—but in my business, good news never pays the bills.

“Noire speaking,” I said, unwrapping a fresh lollipop and popping it in.

The voice on the other end was shaken, but not broken. Her name was Cassandra Vale. Said her fiancé disappeared six days ago. No calls. No texts. No credit card activity. Just gone. Like smoke in the rain.

She thinks he ran off. I think she’s only half-right.

“I want the truth, Mr. Noire,” she told me.

“Truth’s slippery,” I said. “But it leaves footprints.”

She offered cash—enough to cover rent and a new coat. I didn’t hesitate.

I met her at The Station Restaurant near the clock tower. She looked like she stepped out of a dream and into a storm—black trench coat, red scarf, and eyes that hadn’t slept in days.

“Why here?” I asked.

She stirred her coffee. “He used to bring me here every Saturday morning. French toast and lies.”

I nodded. I’d heard worse breakfast stories.

Waterbury’s not the city it used to be. Not since the apps took over. Nobody meets cute anymore. They swipe, chat, ghost, repeat. Relationships last three dates, and if you’re lucky, one awkward brunch.

Everyone’s chasing something. Affection. Control. Closure. Sometimes it’s not even about love—it’s about not losing first.

I told Cassandra I’d take the case.

She handed me a photo of the missing man—Jeremy Vale. Handsome. Clean-shaven. Smile like he borrowed it from a toothpaste ad.

“He’s not the type to just disappear,” she said.

I nodded, pocketed the photo, and pulled my coat tighter.

“Everyone’s the type, Cassandra. They just need the right reason.”

Now I’m walking the streets again, with nothing but a name, a photo, and a cherry lollipop in my mouth.

Something tells me this case isn’t about one man going missing. It’s about why people vanish when the truth gets too heavy to carry.

And me? I’m just trying not to become one of them.

I left The Station with more questions than answers and a drizzle starting to tap out Morse code on my coat. Cassandra Vale wasn’t lying—but she wasn’t telling the whole truth either. Nobody ever does.

First stop? Bitter Betty.

That’s not her real name, of course. Her name’s Lisette Mercy, but around the city, she’s known for her venom-laced podcast “Buzz Off, Boys.”It’s a weekly war cry of ghosting guides, revenge tactics, and tips on how to emotionally bankrupt a man before the first drink’s even poured. Her fanbase? Fierce. Loyal. And not the kind to cry over missed texts.

I figured if anyone had dirt on Jeremy Vale—especially if he dipped a toe in the digital dating cesspool—she would.

Her “office” was a rebranded tattoo parlor off Bank Street, decorated like someone lit a romance novel on fire and glued the ashes to the walls. Red lighting, velvet chairs, and a mannequin in lingerie holding a sign that read:

“NO REFUNDS ON MEN.”

Lisette looked up from her laptop. Black eyeliner sharp enough to cut steel. Her expression said, What do you want, and how fast can you leave?

“Noire,” I said. “Private eye. I’m not here to argue with your audience—I just need a name.”

She arched a brow. “That lollipop’s doing a lot of work if you think it softens your tone.”

I smiled, cherry stick shifting between my teeth. “Can’t help it. I like things that taste like honesty.”

She rolled her eyes, but curiosity won.

“Jeremy Vale,” I said. “Ring a bell?”

She paused. That pause told me something. Either she knew him, or she’d heard whispers.

“You gonna tell me he ghosted a girl and now everyone’s crying about it?”

“He ghosted his fiancée six days before the wedding.”

Lisette leaned back in her seat, arms folded.

“You know what I always say? A man doesn’t vanish. He walks away from a life he doesn’t want. You’re all taught to chase freedom, not commitment.”

“And what happens when the girl still has the keys to his apartment, and his toothbrush is still wet six days later?”

Her smile disappeared.

“I’ll check my inbox,” she said after a long silence. “A guy like him? Probably tried playing both sides. That never ends well.”

Back on the streets, I stopped by the Waterbury PD.

Detective Sabrina Knox owed me a favor—or five. She met me in the parking lot, leaned against her cruiser like she was posing for the cover of a noir reboot.

“Noire,” she said. “If you’re here, something’s gone sideways.”

“Guy named Jeremy Vale. Cassandra’s fiancé. Vanished.”

She sighed. “That name’s been on our board, unofficially. No missing persons filed until yesterday.”

“Anything criminal?”

“Not yet. But I’ll tell you this—his name’s been flagged in three different reports.”

“Three?”

“One bar fight. One online harassment claim. And one woman who says he used to ‘play mind games.’ Her words, not mine.”

“Where’s that woman now?”

“Dead. Two months ago. Suicide.”

Something in my chest got heavy. Maybe this wasn’t just a man gone cold feet. Maybe this was the start of something much darker.

I walked home past the old Palace Theater. Marquee lights flickered like a bad omen. I pulled the lollipop from my mouth and looked at the cherry-red stain it left on the stick.

Funny. It looked a lot like blood.

I’m not just chasing a man. I’m chasing ghosts. And in Waterbury... ghosts talk.

I was halfway through my second lollipop of the night when Knox called me.

“Get down to the Big Apple Hotel,” she said. “Room 308. Bring that steel stomach of yours.”

Click.

No questions. Just a name and a floor number. That’s the kind of call that curdles the blood.

The Big Apple Hotel sits between a boarded-up barbershop and a liquor store with bulletproof glass. Classy enough for low-level politicians, but just sketchy enough for cheating spouses and bad decisions.

By the time I got there, the red-and-blue glow had already drawn a crowd. I flashed my PI badge—just a courtesy gesture, really—and ducked under the tape. The hallway smelled like bleach and secrets.

Knox stood just outside the door. She looked rattled. That never happens.

“Tell me it’s not Vale,” I said.

She didn’t answer. Just pushed the door open.

The room was still. Silent. No radio, no TV—just the dull hum of a faulty light above the bed. Jeremy Vale lay face-up, pale as the sheets beneath him. Shirt open. Tie still on. And sticking out of his chest, buried to the hilt, was a silver letter opener.

Pushed into the handle was a single sheet of paper, blood soaking the edges.

Knox handed me a glove and let me take a look. Written in harsh black ink, one sentence:

“I’m watching you — DJR.”

I stared at it.

“Any idea who DJR is?” Knox asked.

“Not yet,” I said. But I was lying. Because that signature—it made something in my memory twitch. Like a word stuck on the tip of your tongue that tastes like regret.

After the coroner zipped Vale into a bag, I stepped outside to breathe. The air smelled like wet pavement and bad omens.

Two bodies now—one self-inflicted, one silenced. Cassandra had said Jeremy wasn’t the type to disappear. She was right. He didn’t run. He was erased.

And DJR? That wasn’t just a killer’s mark.

It was an invitation.

I made one last stop before calling it a night.

Frank’s Grill. 24-hour joint on Freight Street, lit up like a sad Christmas tree. I ordered a black coffee and slid into my usual booth. The waitress didn’t ask questions. Just gave me the mug and walked away.

I pulled out my notepad. Scribbled:

Jeremy Vale: Dead

Cassandra: Lying about something

Suicide victim (connected?)

DJR = ???

What did Jeremy know?

Then I underlined DJR three times.

If this was about heartbreak, then someone was making damn sure no one could mend.

“Love didn’t kill Jeremy Vale. Obsession did.”

And now the game was on.

DJR.

Three letters.

One headache.

Could’ve been a name. A nickname. A company. Hell, it could’ve been graffiti on the wall of an abandoned chatroom. But that note in Vale’s chest wasn’t a typo. That was a signature—and a promise.

I stirred my coffee like it might have answers in the swirl. No sugar. No cream. Just like me—bitter and boiling.

“DJR,” I muttered aloud. “Who the hell are you?”

I scribbled the letters across a napkin, circled them. Underlined them. I’ve seen initials used like that before. It’s what people do when they want to be feared… but not found. Serial killers, hackers, even writers who want the story to speak louder than the name behind it.

It’s a pseudonym. A mask. A shadow. Just like Rowling with Galbraith—everyone read the book, but no one knew the hand behind the pen.

Maybe DJR’s doing the same thing. But instead of crime fiction… they’re writing real crime.

And their first chapter? Ended with Jeremy Vale bleeding on a bed.

I didn’t make it home that night.

Knox called again—this time her voice sounded like sandpaper and sorrow.

“Another one,” she said.

“Jeremy’s fiancée?” I asked, already bracing.

“No. Different name. Another supposed suicide. Room at the Wilby Arms Apartments. Left a note... and Noire?” She paused. “It’s got the same signature. DJR.”

I got there before the body bag zipped.

Young woman. Mid-thirties. Name: Trina Mallory. Single. Teacher. No record. No enemies. No fiancé. No obvious reason to check out of life early. Except… the way the scene was arranged?

Too perfect. Too quiet. Like someone wanted to make damn sure it looked like she did it herself.

The note was taped to her mirror—typed this time. Not handwritten like Vale’s. Like someone’s evolving. Or just toying with tone.

I read it twice before I spoke.

“When a lie walks too far, it trips on truth’s shoelaces. She thought she could dance through denial. But the music’s over.”

– DJR

A riddle. A damn riddle, like this was a scavenger hunt where the prize was pain.

Knox leaned in. “This one’s colder. More clinical. No blood. Just a bottle of pills and poetic garbage.”

“She’s connected to Vale somehow,” I muttered. “She has to be.”

I glanced at the corner of the note. Three tiny drops of ink formed a triangle at the bottom edge.

“That’s new,” I said.

“You think it’s a signature?”

“No. I think it’s a breadcrumb.”

Outside, I stood beneath a flickering streetlamp and lit nothing. Just unwrapped another cherry lollipop and popped it in.

Two suicides. Two letters. Same killer. Same initials.

But now… a riddle.

This wasn’t murder. This was an episode. A drama. A manifesto in progress.

DJR wasn’t just signing off anymore. They were writing a series.

And something tells me I’m not just the reader anymore.

I’m in the next chapter.