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Thirteen individual and complete Hawai‘ian detective mysteries featuring a disabled ex-cop turned cab driver. With his golden retriever sidekick, he takes on the criminal side of Honolulu. Homicide detective Sam Nahoe takes a bullet in his spine in the line of duty. Disabled, his career with the Honolulu Police Department shattered, what now? Jobless, lonely, and unwillingly divorced, Sam becomes a Checker Cab driver. Seeking a partner, he adopts a rescue golden retriever—with a touch of Doberman, and trains her to perform neat tricks like growling at a fare who doesn’t tip. He and Goldie cruise O‘ahu for kidnappers, and vengeful wives. Even killers, compelling Sam to get his private investigator license. His Sunday visitations with his daughter, Peggy, can turn a magical park day into a hair-raising crime scene, but his shrewd little kid becomes a miniature sleuth in her own right. Sam's Hawai‘ian heritage provides him with spunk and street smarts. He hobbles around on two canes, named Cane and Able, as he orders Goldie to chase bad guys. His favorite snitch, card-sharp Sophie, asks him: "You still walkin’ with them giant chopsticks?"

ISBN:978-0-9905472-5-9. Magic Island Literary Works (Summer 2019)

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Click here to see color pictures of Tavi, Goldie's canine standin.

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Today Sam Nahoe caught his third major case since making detective sergeant in the Homicide unit of the Honolulu Police Department. He now wore a gold badge instead of a silver one.

Sam and his partner, Corporal Mose Kauahi, hurried over to a mid-rise apartment house at 2330 Lanahi Place. The call came in at 9:30 a.m. The caller said she’d been trying to phone her neighbor for several days without a response. As a last resort, she went outside and peeked in his first-floor window. She saw him collapsed over his desk.

The detectives met the woman inside the apartment lobby. Sam’s keen eyes assessed her. Waist-length kinky blonde hair, dark at the roots. Fortyish trying to look thirty, and less businesslike than he expected in a lacy pink tank top and short shorts. She flashed Sam a heavily lipsticked smile. “I’m Doris Haliburton. You can call me Doris.”

Jeez, the broad is actually flirting with me, thought Sam without missing a step.

They followed her down the hall to apartment 1A. Sam tried the door and found it locked. “It’s another one of those steel security doors with anti-pick locks,” he announced. “We’ll have to find another way in. Is there a resident manager here?”

Doris shrugged. “Only part-time. But I s’pose you could try the windows out back.” Without waiting for consent, she started down the hall. Sam couldn’t help but notice the smooth legs, looking decades younger than her sun-creased face. At the rear of the building she held the door open for both men, an exit to a fencedin backyard. “It’s those two double windows—there and there—the ones on the left,” she pointed. Her voice quavered. “He’s in the living room.”

Sam frowned. “Those windows are pretty high. You look to be about five-two. How could you see in?”

“I used my kitchen stool,” Doris answered smugly.

Mose stepped closer. “It would be helpful if we could use it too,” he said. “That is, if you wouldn’t mind, ma’am.”

She flinched at the word “ma’am.” Sam knew why. It made women feel old.

“Yeah, sure, I’ll get it. I’m in apartment 1C. Back in two shakes.”

Mose had no intention of letting Doris out of his sight. He followed her inside, and the two returned with him carrying the stepstool. He placed it below the first set of double windows. The short, stocky detective climbed up only to find that he couldn’t see much past the window sill. He yielded to Sam. Nearly a head taller at six-four, Sam climbed up until he had a clear view into what was obviously the living room. It was furnished with two leather couches, a glass-topped coffee table, and an elaborate entertainment center on the left wall. A rather affluent bachelor pad, he guessed. But in the far right corner against the wall, sure enough, a man’s body lay slumped over a large modern desk.

Sam examined both double windows leading to the living room for signs of forced entry, but found none. He tried to at least jiggle each section, but each one was immovable, locked in place, with self-locking dowels to the right and left. He climbed down and moved the stepstool to the second set of double windows, hoping for better luck. Climbing back up, he peered into a bedroom and tested that set of windows with the same result. He decided entry there would cause less damage than in the more elegant living room.

“We’ll have to get a locksmith for the front door,” said Mose.

“Can’t wait for that. The man may need medical attention,” replied Sam. He removed a pair of sunglasses from his forest-green sport shirt and handed them down to Mose while he mulled over the best way to enter. The Venetian blinds were raised to their full height, so he wouldn’t have to deal with them. Removing his Glock 9mm from its holster, he turned his head away, and ducked to his left as he drove the weapon, handle first, against the lower glass panel, cracking it sharply away from him so that the shards fell inside the room and dropped to the floor. He swept the barrel of his gun back and forth to remove the remaining shards from the frame. Reaching through the cleared opening, he released the pair of locks from their side stops, and slid the tall window all the way up.

“Hey, Mose, would you get me the floor mats from the front of the cruiser?”

When his partner returned with the mats, Sam dropped them over the concentration of glass shards inside the window.

He cautiously planted his size-thirteen shoes on the top step of the stool, then wiggled his backside onto the window ledge. Lifting one leg at a time over the sill, he slid inside. He landed for a split-second on his feet, but his muscular bulk gave way, sending him flopping on his knees. He heard, and felt, the crunching of he shards beneath the floor mats as he landed. Hoisting himself to his feet, he surveyed his surroundings. He had landed next to a queen-size bed with a quilted headboard and plaid comforter. He saw nothing out of order in the room; only an uncluttered bureau and nightstand.

The moment Sam entered the living room, the stench of decay hit him. He whipped out a handkerchief from his back pocket and covered his nose and mouth.

The motionless body slumped over the desk was a male of medium build, narrow-shouldered, wearing a muted-print aloha shirt. He appeared to have been working on his laptop. His head of thinning sand-colored hair lay face-down on the keyboard. The monitor reflected the impact with a string of unintelligible letters and numbers. On the desk he saw documents and spreadsheets in neat piles; nothing else but a tape dispenser and vinyl cup holding ballpoint pens. The printer on the left corner of the desk contained no printouts. Sam leaned over, and with his free hand placed two fingers on the victim’s carotid artery, feeling for signs of life. There was no pulse. But he knew there wouldn’t be. In the middle of the man’s back he found two bullet holes, close together, with accompanying patches of dried blood, obscuring the shirt’s flowered pattern. He hastily backed up when he realized he had almost stepped in blood that had dried on the plush beige carpet. They had themselves a crime scene.

“We’ve got a stiff here, Mose,” Sam called out. “Male, maybe fifty. Shot in the back, two small-caliber wounds. Dead a couple days, I’d say, from the smell of things. No weapon. We can’t touch anything. We have to call the crime scene bunch. Come around front through the lobby. I’ll let you in.”

Pulling on a pair of Latex gloves, Sam tried to open the door of apartment 1A to go out into the hall. But in addition to the anti-pick lock, he discovered a second lock—keyless—with a rectangular- shaped deadbolt operated by only an inside thumb-latch. Deadlocked from the inside, he determined. No way anybody broke into this door. He turned the thumb-latch, then the doorknob, and let Mose in.

Without invitation, Doris slipped in behind Mose. Sam noticed that she seemed to know her way around. She scooted across the room and plopped herself into the La-Z-Boy recliner that sat about ten feet from a large flat-screen TV. But the rotten odors of death permeated the air. She wrinkled her nose in disgust, jumped up, and darted back out to the lobby.

Mose also reacted to the smell, pulled out his checkered handkerchief, and covered his face. Pecking away at his cell phone, he delivered the necessary report to their lieutenant in Homicide. The detectives left the apartment door slightly ajar so they wouldn’t get locked out and retreated to the lobby to wait for the Crime Scene Investigation team.

In the lobby Doris sat huddled in an upholstered chair, her mop of hair almost hiding her face. While they waited for CSI, the detectives questioned her. She looked up at them, teary-eyed and sniffling. Moist mascara smudges dotted her sharp cheekbones.

“I still can’t believe he’s dead,” she said, her face a mixture of distress and horror. “His name is, I mean was, James Castile.” She explained that he was a department manager at one of the anchor stores at the Ala Moana mall. “He was a pleasant fellow—wouldn’t hurt a soul. A nice man. No living relatives that I know of.”

“How well did you know him?” Sam asked.

She hesitated. “We…had a few dates.”

“How many?” Sam asked. He noticed her eyes had shifted to one side.

“Well, about a dozen.”

“Do you have any idea why anyone would want to kill him?”

She shook her head. “No—except maybe that he liked to gamble some.”

“Some?”

A scowl approaching anger crossed her face. “He played online poker. A lot.”

She turned silent, pressing her lips together, creating worry lines that emanated from the corners of her mouth. Sam persisted. “Did he owe you money?”

She shrugged. “Some.”

Between the shifting eyes and the “some” he saw a practiced evasive manner and decided to keep his approach formal.

“Just how much, Miss Haliburton?”

Her ash-gray eyes smoldered. “About $4,000.”

The detectives looked at each other.

By 12:30 p.m., the CSI unit had finished their routine evidence search. No prints, no fibers. Nothing useful. They were not pleased that the bedroom window had been smashed, wondering whether evidence had been destroyed. Sam owned up to breaking it and explained there was no other way to enter the apartment, but he assured them he had disturbed nothing. The investigators placed a sheet of clear plastic over the gap, as well as crisscrossed yellow crime-scene tape. After the necessary crime scene photographs, the body was transported to the morgue.

What bothered Sam most was the lack of access to this first-floor corner apartment. It nagged at him until his gaze settled on the living room windows facing the rear of the building. They were fairly well concealed from the next apartment building by thick hibiscus bushes. He speculated that the killer shot Castile, locked both doors from the inside, and let himself out through one of the self-locking windows. He had to be wearing gloves because he’d left no prints.

Sam tried slipping the window frame up while pulling in the two spring-loaded dowels from the anti-theft stop holes on both sides. He discovered that they had to be re-pulled every four inches from fully open to fully closed—a whole new problem. How could the perpetrator pull the dowels while he was dropping to the ground? He’d have to be double jointed. Until Sam examined the stop holes on the opposite window he was totally stymied.

There he discovered that strips of Scotch tape had been laid in the tracks, covering all the stop holes except for the last pair, which allowed the panel to lock in its frame as the killer left the scene. The exposed side of the strips appeared to be wiped clean, and any unlikely prints on the opposite or sticky side would probably be destroyed during removal. The killer must have taken the Scotch tape off the dispenser on the desk. The CSI team would have dusted the dispenser, but maybe the tape itself had something to offer. He went back to the desk, picked up the dispenser, and forced a breath of air over the tape. Sure enough, a single print emerged. The killer must have removed his gloves to manipulate it.

“Mose, get an evidence bag from the car trunk, please. I think we’ve got a clear print here.” Sam also made a mental note to retrieve their floor mats from the bedroom.

At 10:30 the next morning the report came back from the FBI’s Automated Fingerprint Identification System (AFIS). It revealed a twenty-four-point match—to a woman! Daisy Skinner, aka Doris Skinner, aka Doris Haliburton, a skilled con artist wanted in several states. Sam and his partner went to pick her up. Mose rang the bell next to her nameplate. It took four rings before she answered the intercom and buzzed them in. She stood in her doorway in jeans and a bulky University of Hawai‘i Warriors sweatshirt—a far cry from her coquettish outfit of the day before.

“Sorry I took so long. I was indisposed,” she murmured in a throaty voice, batting her lashes thick with fresh mascara. “You know how that is, gentlemen. Come on in. How can I help you?”

Sam felt the woman’s eyes scan him—from his curly black hair to his broad chest and arms, like he was something to be devoured. He had three-quarters Hawai‘ian blood and a haole(Caucasian) maternal grandmother, all of which accounted for his charisma. Women were drawn not just to his physique, but to his strong square jaw, ruddy complexion, and high, round cheekbones that hinted of Polynesian ancestry.

But he saw through Doris—she was only flirting to distract him. He nodded briefly, shrugging off the unwanted attention, and stepped past her. Mose followed.

Inside her apartment, Sam immediately got the impression of an exceptionally well-heeled tenant. Living room with teal-blue wall-to-wall carpeting; tweed sofa with matching side chairs; full kitchen with gleaming appliances. An open door revealed a spacious bedroom with a four-poster bed. The black-lacquered nightstand held a stack of books. The title of the one on top read Online Texas Hold’em Poker.

“Doris Haliburton,” Sam announced, “you are under arrest for the murder of James Castile.” He began reciting her Miranda rights. As he was about to cuff her, she pivoted and faced him. “Detective,” she said with a Marilyn Monroe breathiness, “I assure you this is all a terrible misunderstanding. I couldn’t even get inside his apartment, let alone murder the poor man.”

“Look, lady,” Mose interjected. “We got your prints on the Scotch tape.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. How is that relevant, Detective?”

“It was obvious,” said Sam. “Our perpetrator had to be the last person to use the dispenser. You used tape to block the window stops. You needed it for your retreat from the crime scene.”

“But gentlemen, if I killed him he couldn’t very well pay me back, could he? After all, he owed me a bundle.” She smiled with the satisfaction of her logic.

“Miss Haliburton, I agree,” said Sam. “I’m thinking it’s the other way around. You’re the gambler, the big loser. But you have expensive tastes. You borrowed the money from him and didn’t want to pay it back. We can easily check that out.”

She shrugged. “So what?” Her smile remained fixed, but her eyes turned cold. “Can I get my purse from over there on the table?”

“Sure,” said Mose, “after I look through it first.” He opened the Coach handbag of soft leather and dumped out the contents, when he heard a harsh voice behind him.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” Doris held a .22-caliber target pistol pointed straight at him. She had hidden it under her sweatshirt, tucked into her jeans belt.

Just as he heard the click of the gun’s safety, Sam dove to knock Mose out of the line of fire. He heard the shot and felt a sting in his back—just as the bullet lodged in his spinal cord channel. Mose hit the floor first. Sam fell almost on top of him.

Mose rolled free in one rapid move, pulled out his weapon, and managed to fire three quick shots angled from the floor at the fleeing Doris Haliburton. The first shot blew out the back of her right knee, the second went through the main leg artery, and the third landed upward, deep into her chest. She screamed twice, convulsed, and died.

Mose, grateful for his own life, used his cell phone to call an ambulance to the scene. He turned pale when he saw his partner in agony on the floor. Sam was still alive, but suffering from pain and shock. By noon he lay on his stomach on the operating table. But there were hard choices to be made. The doctors had performed exploratory surgery and needed to decide whether to remove the bullet, which was lodged in an extremely dangerous and difficult place in his spine. Or they could simply treat the wound and close it up, leaving the slug inside to possibly cause new damage at some future date. Either approach could bring about the detective’s premature death.

Mose had immediately phoned “Kia,” Sam’s wife of eleven years. Within minutes of his call, she canceled all her appointments and rushed to the hospital. Kianah, Hawai‘ian for moon goddess, was a robust Hawai‘ian with olive skin, full lips, and a mane of chestnut-brown hair that curled about her neck. Blackframed glasses seemed only to enhance her eyes, the color of coffee brewing. Now, in the hospital waiting room, she had to make the most important decision of her life. They had married right after Sam’s graduation from the Honolulu Police Academy. She loved her husband deeply and passionately. But his dangerous profession had taken its toll on her. She could never quite suppress the knot of fear that, at times, wore her down. At this moment what she feared most was the prospect of bringing up their nine-year-old daughter, Peggy, alone. She saw Sam’s doctor coming down the hall toward her.

“Mrs. Nahoe, he’s awake now and wants to see you before he goes back into surgery. He wants us to close up the wound. He says he’ll take his chances for now.” The decision had been made for her.

After a month’s hospital stay and four months of intense physical therapy, Sam emerged to face the grim truth. He had a troublesome walking gait, a serious limp, and a considerably bentover back. To overcome it, he needed not one, but two metal canes. He chose a pair in a subtle pattern of maroon and navy blue with curved, foam-cushioned handles. These canes were not just for balance; they granted him the means to stand straight and the ability to walk, even if only for short distances. They carried his full 220- pound weight with each step. The bullet that lurked in his spine remained the culprit—a constant reminder of the unknown, the potential to cripple further.

In a lighter moment, he dubbed his walking canes “Cane” and “Able.” No, not Cain and Abel, the biblical spellings—he liked the play on words. Sam soon learned to support his shifted weight by coordinating each leg with the opposite cane, much in the same manner as the motion of a cross-country skier. “Ski-walking,” he called it. He could manage decently enough with a single cane, but quickly tired of that mode when he discovered it put his full weight on his right shoulder and would just create a new problem for him: rotator cuff damage.

Sam’s birth name was actually Kamuela, Hawai‘ian for Samuel. He appreciated his heritage, but as a police officer he felt his name often got in the way, especially for most folks during emergencies on the phone. He preferred to be called Kam, but somehow it never took, so by default, he decided to be Sam, which was what his wife called him anyway.

He would be back on the job soon—or so he thought. His spirits had remained high throughout the recovery period, despite the awkward gait and a constant aching in the lower back. But a week after returning to his squad room, the captain himself handed him an envelope. A forced retirement notice. It came not only with a commendation for solving his last crime, but a commendation for saving the life of a fellow officer. Plus a disability pension and health benefits.

But no matter how generous, the retirement hit Sam hard. Silently, he protested. I’m a damned good cop, only thirty-six, with a promising career. And I’m not trained for anything else. He wasn’t even offered a desk job, although he would have hated it. But it would have been better than walking the plank, as he viewed it.

In a matter of days, Sam Nahoe underwent a metamorphosis from an easy-going, loving husband and father to a demanding, sullen grouch. There was no living with him. At home alone all day, with Kia downtown in her successful law practice and Peggy in school, he refined the art of sulking. Following three months of constant morose bitchiness, Kia’s pity and even her love grew thin. Threats of divorce mounted. In June, after a major shrieking skirmish, Sam moved out to his own apartment. But the trial separation resolved nothing, with each one blaming the other, and Peggy hopelessly begging them to reconcile. The divorce became final the following February. He reluctantly surrendered child custody in return for weekly Sunday visitations.

Sam spent more than a few evenings a week sopping up suds at Charlie’s Bar and Grille over on Wai‘alae Avenue. Often he shared a few beers with a fellow police retiree, who got sick of commiserating and tossed out a new idea for him. “Hey, pal, why don’t you drive a cab?”

Sam thought it over—for fifteen minutes. Not a bad idea, he decided. He could keep busy, earn a little extra cash, and still stay off his feet. Besides, driving might even be therapeutic. Convinced, he took the cash settlement for his disability and bought a used, but well-maintained Checker Cab, bright yellow, with a surrounding black and white checkered stripe just under the windows. He had no trouble obtaining all the necessary licensing to become an independent owner/driver. It wasn’t long before Sam had a regular clientele, freelance fares that took him throughout the island of O‘ahu. It proved to be a lonely life, but he became a much calmer man now that he had a job—a job where people actually depended on him.

On one of his Sunday afternoons with his daughter, he took Peggy to the Honolulu Zoo. A miniature of her mother, she had a sturdy body and chestnut-brown hair woven into two thick braids. She had also acquired the dawning of cruel wisdom that comes from a child witnessing her parents’ divorce.

They strolled past the gazelles and other African animals. “Know what, Daddy?” Peggy said. “You need a pet. Then you wouldn’t be so lonely.”

Sam looked down at her and grinned. “Are you suggesting I get myself a zebra?”

She giggled. “Of course not, Daddy. How about a dog or a cat?”

“It wouldn’t be right to leave an animal alone all day while I drive my cab.”

Peggy’s eyes danced with an idea, the nine-year-old psychiatrist at work. “Why couldn’t the pet sit up front with you?”

“Peggs, that’s a crazy idea. But…we’ll see. Thanks for worrying about me.” He gave her a big squeeze.

The next day Sam dropped off a fare in Moiliili and headed for the Hawai‘i Humane Society across the street. Maybe it’s meant to be, he chuckled to himself.

“Cat or dog?” the attendant asked.

“A dog,” Sam promptly replied. He was led down a series of chain-link cages.

Sad canine faces nuzzled against their gates. A few looked promising. Sam stopped cold at one cage, and there he befriended a female eighteen-month-old golden retriever named Goldie.

“Well, mostly golden,” assured the vet on duty. “Maybe a slight touch of Doberman.”

Guaranteed to eat a lot and shed a lot, Sam thought wryly. But he fell instantly in love. She had soft, wavy fur that would get glossy when brushed, a plumed tail, and a mouth that curled up at the corners. Goldens were the only breed he knew of that looked like they were always smiling. It was an adoption made in heaven, and took only an hour for the paperwork and loyalty lecture. Within a few weeks he was able to settle Goldie into the passenger seat, her front-row view of Honolulu streets. Of course, she wore her own canine seatbelt harness. Sam had ordered it off the Internet for $39.95.

The ex-policeman and Goldie spent most of their days together in the taxi. Sam ran the air conditioner full time to control the inevitable doggie smell. Two square meals, plus semi-recreational walks, satisfied her daily needs. Goldie proved to be as intelligent as his new owner had hoped, and soon picked up a number of habits.

Whether good or bad remained one’s point of view. A few weeks later, when they dropped off the last fare of the day, Sam climbed out of the cab and came around to open the trunk and help the passenger with his luggage. The passenger counted out the exact meter amount, $45, and handed over the bills. Sam held up two fingers behind his back. His new partner poked her head out the window, began a slow growl, and just slightly bared her front teeth. The man blinked in shock and quickly fished another ten-spot out of his wallet. Then Sam held up one finger behind his back. Goldie stopped growling and broke into her usual friendly smile.

“Good girl,” he told her afterward, slipping her a Milk Bone.

Yes, Goldie proved useful for his business and also provoked much-needed conversation from the back seat. Many of Sam’s patrons were pet lovers. Who couldn’t love a smiling golden?

One day, after parking in the PetSmart lot, Sam and Goldie were ski-walking and padding their way toward the store, when they witnessed a purse snatching. The young thief, who looked about seventeen, dodged between cars to escape, and mindlessly ran straight toward them.

Once a cop always a cop. The ex-detective stepped in his way. When the thief tried to shift direction, Sam turned one of his canes into an impromptu weapon. He sharply hooked Able’s handle around the thief ’s ankle, causing him to trip and fall on his face. Sam stooped to pick up the stolen purse, let go of the dog’s leash, and said “Go, girl!” Goldie placed both front paws and much of her sixty-five-pound weight on the teenage boy’s back. As he struggled to get free, Sam held up two fingers for Goldie. She growled and bared her teeth next to the thief ’s face. To her it was a game.

It’s a good thing this loser doesn’t know goldens are charmers, not fighters, thought Sam, as he approached the two. A quick frisking let Sam know the teenager wasn’t armed. Adding his own left foot to Goldie’s paws in the middle of the perp’s back, he cell-phoned HPD headquarters for assistance. The victim rushed over to retrieve her purse and offered him a reward. But Sam, still thinking like the honest cop he’d always been, refused. Instead, he gave her his business card: “Copper and Goldie Taxi Service,” complete with phone number and email address—and Goldie’s picture on the reverse side.

Sam had no way of predicting that this “collar” was the beginning of their crime-fighting adventures.

Long and Short Reviews

Reviewed by Poinsettia

In just a few pages, Sam and Goldie completely won me over! Sam was a good officer with a promising career cut short by a tragedy. When his personal life also falls apart, he's forced to make some tough choices. Sam works hard to get his life back on track, but trouble still manages to find him. It only seems natural that Sam become a private investigator. Since I love mysteries and dogs, I couldn't wait to dive into this collection of stories and see what each "tail" would bring.

Sam and Goldie make a great team. Sam is smart, resourceful, and deeply cares for his daughter. He's also still clearly in love with his ex-wife. He's the kind of man who doesn't hesitate to help those in need, and I really liked getting to know him and watching him rebuild his life. Goldie is such a sweet dog! She stole my heart, and every scene she is in. Her personality shines through each page. The pictures of the golden retriever that inspired Goldie's character are absolutely adorable and truly furthered my enjoyment of the story. I couldn't help but smile every time I opened the book!

This collection is quick and easy to read. All the stories are less than 20 pages long and each can be read in less than fifteen minutes. This is perfect for when time is short and you don't want to start a full-length book, but still want something entertaining to read. The mysteries are fairly light with just a dash of suspense, and the violence is minimal and never graphic. While each story contains a stand-alone mystery, I recommend reading them in order to follow the progression of Sam's life after leaving the police force.

I'm so glad I had the opportunity to read Copper and Goldie. The stories are fun, the characters likable, and the final "tail" is the perfect ending to this heartwarming collection. Fans of cozy mysteries would do well to pick up a copy today.Rating = "Four Stars"

LSJ BOOK REVIEW -

Reviewed by Ray Walsh

Ray Walsh, owner of East Lansing’s Curious Book Shop, has reviewed crime novels and Michigan books regularly since 1987.

“Copper and Goldie” by husband-and-wife authors Rosemary and Larry Mild, (Magic Island Literary Works, $14.95) is a fast and easy reading experience. Subtitled “13 Tails (Short Stories) of Mystery and Suspense in Hawai’i”. This anthology showcases ex-Honolulu Homicide Detective Sam Nahoe and his trusty dog Goldie, who solve a lot of crimes. But this not your typical collection of mystery stories. Sam takes a bullet in his spine in the line of duty; Goldie is a young female Golden Retriever mix that he adopts from the local Humane Society. Sam is frustrated and slowly recovering - handicapped, lonely and unwillingly divorced.

Sam now gets around with two canes, but is bored – the ex-cop becomes an independent Checker Cab driver. Sam trains Goldie, a smart, good-natured dog who’s part Doberman, and takes her along for the ride, sitting in the front passenger seat. The matched pair get involved in a number of different criminal cases – often unintentionally – their fares include bank robbers, killers and bank robbers. With his background in law enforcement and his need for additional funds, Sam gets a private investigator’s license – and promptly gets in more trouble. Goldie is not an authorized K-9 dog, she’s Sam’s unofficial partner who growls and follows other commands that he has taught her.

Each of the 13 “episodes” are fast-paced and rewarding, some have photographs of Tavi, Goldie’s canine understudy and role model. Numerous stories have oddball but believable characters, such as corporate muscleman “Thor” Morgan, described as “a huge ugly galoot”. There are many emotional scenes dealing with love and death, greed and deceit, family relationships and strong-willed determination. Frequent touches of light humor abound – and dark humor, too. Nine of these police procedural tales originally appeared on the online mystery magazine, Mysterical-E, edited by Joe DeMarco.

To better appreciate this well-designed, 184-page trade paperback, it’s best to read it over an extended period of time, instead of devouring them all in one sitting. While a few stories may be somewhat predictable to experienced crime fiction fans, most are highly enjoyable and great fun. Rosemary and Larry Mild have co-authored or written many other books, including anthologies and memoirs.