http://www.mlrbooks.com/Bookstore.php?bookid=T38MILSM
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-38-Million-Dollar-Smile/Richard-Stevenson/e/9781608200139/?itm=1&usri=1

Gadfly scion of Albany old money Gary Griswold goes missing in Thailand, and his ex-wife wants him found – with his 38 million dollars. Soon Albany’s only gay PI, Don Strachey, is out of his element, and lover Timmy is out of his comfort zone combing the Land of Smiles for a man with unerring weakness for the poorest possible choice and a daft plan to buy 38 million dollars worth of good karma.

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Chapter One

“Mr. Strachey, do you believe in reincarnation?”

“I’ve never given it much thought.”

“So you won’t mind my telling you, I think the whole idea is perfectly absurd.”

“Go ahead.”

It had been Ellen Griswold’s idea to meet in the bar at the Albany airport at six thirty. She was picking her husband up from the US Airways flight from Washington that theoretically got in at seven forty but sometimes arrived around nine or ten. So we had plenty of time for going over the mysteries of life.

“I know you’ve spent time in Southeast Asia,” she said. “So I assume you know something about Buddhist philosophy.”

She was nicely turned out in a beige linen suit, the sea green silk wrap she had been wearing against the early April chill now slung over the chair next to her. Still on the underside of fifty, I guessed, Mrs. Griswold was raven haired, with clear dark eyes, a handsome beak, and apparently had had some minimal cantilevering and other structural work done on her chin and cheeks, though nothing that would have overtaxed Le Corbusier.

I said, “I was in the war there, so I know a little. But even in Army Intelligence, my thinking was focused and practical. The larger questions relating to the Asian psyche were left to the deep thinkers at the Pentagon. How did you know I was in Vietnam?”

“Bob Chicarelli told me.”

A lawyer I knew. “I’ve done work for Bob.”

“And have played squash with him. He also says you’re gay. That’s good, because so is my ex-husband, who is the problem here, I think.”

“Ah, the problem.” (continue reading…)

A long-defunct gay activist group seems to be threatening radio shock jock Jay Plankton. As The J-Bird, the man’s hate-filled rants offend Strachey deeply. Among the subjects Stevenson tackles in this series entry is homophobia in modern police services like the NYPD, where coming out carries more than its usual share of costs.

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Chapter One

The 24-across clue was “‘The Oblong Box’ writer,” and the answer was looming just over the hazy horizon of my Friday-morning mind when the man in the Amtrak seat next to me whipped out his cell phone, punched in some numbers, and announced, “Ed, it’s Al.”

I looked up from the folded-in-quarters arts section of the Times and said to the back of the seat ahead of me, “Ed, it’s Al.”

Missing just a fraction of a beat, Al said, “I’m on the train. I’ll see Quinn when I get there, and I’m having lunch with Margaret Wills.”

While Al listened to Ed’s reply, I said, “I’m on the train. I’ll see Quinn when I get there, and I’m having lunch with Margaret Wills.”

Al peered over at me, and I peered back. Then he told Ed, “Listen, there’s a guy in the seat next to me who…”

Like a simultaneous-translation whiz at the UN, I was right behind him. “Listen, there’s a guy in the seat next to me who…”

I grinned as I said it, and Al’s look of annoyance was turning to apprehension. This would make a good story when he met Quinn and then when he dined with Margaret Wills —”Would you believe, I was sitting next to this prick on the train who…” — but for now it must have been starting to seem to Al that I could be dangerous. (continue reading…)

Violence interrupts quiet reflection on tragedy when Donald and Timmy visit Washington to view the AIDS Memorial Quilt. Unexpected stories about a disgraced, conservative congresswoman, and a gay Lothario with designs on Strachey are catalysts for Donald’s investigation into a memorial to a man who isn’t quite as dead as he seems.

(Originally published 1998.)

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Chapter One

“This is screwy. This is nuts. This has to be some kind of pathetic, sick joke!” Maynard Sudbury unexpectedly blurted out.

Timothy Callahan and I stared at Maynard as he stared down with a look of shocked bewilderment at one particular panel in the AIDS Memorial Quilt.

“Jim Suter is not dead,” Maynard said, gawking. “I don’t think he’s even sick. I saw him in Mexico not more than two weeks ago.”

Maynard brushed away the shock of sandy-colored hair that had flopped across his ever-youthful Midwestern farmboy’s face. It seemed as if he needed the clearest vision possible in order to take in and try to comprehend this shocking sight. (continue reading…)