Murder on Olympus (Plato Jones #1) by Robert B. Warren Blog Tour

Expected publication: April 11th 2013

Description:

At first glance, the Gods of Olympus are as different from one another as salt is from sugar. Despite their bickering, they share a universal bond, a thread of commonality that unites them.

They’re all jerks.

After a stint with the Olympic Bureau of Investigation, Plato Jones is through with the Gods and their political games. Against his protests, he's drawn into a murder investigation, where the murderer's targets are the Gods themselves.

Plato has cracked some tough cases: exposing cheating spouses, capturing treasonous heretics, hunting three-headed dogs. But this time he’s in over his head. How can he solve a crime that’s impossible to commit? And what chance does Plato—a mere mortal—have against something powerful enough to kill a God?

About the author: 

A fan of thrillers, fantasy, and science fiction, Robert B. Warren has been writing stories ever since he could hold a pencil. In 2009, he received a Bachelor of Arts degree in English and creative writing from the University of Alabama—Roll Tide! He currently lives in the South.

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Excerpt:

New Olympia came alive at night. Dozens of bars and nightclubs lit up throughout the city, but the real action took place on Siren Strip. It stretched for nearly two miles through the center of downtown, a river of neon lights. Traffic was at a standstill.

Herc was waiting for me at the side of a coffee shop, where the lights were low. A black shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap covered most of his oversize frame. Dark shades concealed his eyes. This was his idea of a disguise. The fact that he was seven feet tall with biceps as big as watermelons kind of ruined the effect.

I crossed the street and joined him in the alleyway. “How’s it going?”

“Were you followed?”

“Of course not. Stealth is my middle name. Plato Stealth Jones.”

“Gotta good feeling about this new disguise, Jonesy.” Herc grinned nervously. “The hat and the sunglasses cost five credits apiece, but I plan on getting a refund first thing tomorrow.”

I took a closer look at the sunglasses and noticed the sticker was still on them. “I don’t think your adoring public will appreciate being deceived like this.”

“Screw the public!” Herc poked his head out of the alley for a split second—to see if anyone had heard him—then dipped back into the shadows. “This is crazy. I can’t take a piss in my own house without it ending up in the tabloid. ‘Hercules, taking a piss in his own house. Is he really taking a piss? Or is he secretly cheating on his wife? Does he stuff his pants? We’ve got the truth.’ Don’t they have anything better to do than pester me?”

The Gods and Demigods of Olympus are worldwide celebrities. Wherever they go, fans and paparazzi follow close behind.

I chuckled softly. You’d think that after years of being in the public eye, Herc would have gotten used to the attention by now. “Scandal of the century,” I said.

Herc opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. He sank deeper into the shadows and froze as a pair of college girls in bright makeup and glittery dresses passed the alley.

Once they had gone, he released a pent-up breath. “That was close,” he whispered. “By the way, Geno’s hanging out with us tonight.”

 

“The more the merrier. Where is he?”

“Probably waiting for us at the Night Owl.”

“Well, let’s not keep him waiting.”

Herc peeked around the corner. “We move on three. One . . . two . . .”

We slipped out of the alley and scurried down the sidewalk. Herc tugged his hat down and tried to look inconspicuous. A group of passersby stopped to look at him. It wasn’t a good sign.

We hadn’t been walking for very long when someone shouted, “It’s Hercules!”

Light flashed on the edge of my vision, and voices erupted as a gang of paparazzi appeared. I had no idea where they came from. It was like they had materialized out of thin air. Hera’s doing?

Herc covered his face and walked faster. I did the same. The paparazzi followed us, taking snapshots. Hanging out with a Demigod meant that my face occasionally graced the covers of tabloids, where I was known not as Plato Jones, crack detective, but as Hercules’s servant, that guy who hangs out with Hercules, or Hercules’s gay lover. I’d called the reporter for a retraction on that last one, but he never returned my calls.

I couldn’t figure out why the press had never bothered to find out who I was. Maybe it was because I wasn’t a celebrity. Or maybe I just didn’t look that interesting. I guess it didn’t really matter. The idea of fame never appealed to me. Now fortune, that’s a different story.

By the time Herc and I reached the end of the block, the group of photographers had evolved into a mob. Fortunately, the bar was around the corner.

It was little more than a hole in the wall, squeezed between an Italian bistro and a place that claimed to have the best Buffalo wings in town. White neon lights spelled out “Night Owl.”

Napoleon, the bouncer, stood with his arms crossed beside the door. Brown fur covered his body, topped with smoky-gray horns on his head. He was a minotaur. His black T-shirt had the word SECURITY written on it in bold white lettering. How he managed to fit those horns through the neck hole was a question only he could answer. I wasn’t about to ask him.

The photographers gathered around us and continued to snap pictures. But all maintained a distance from the eight-foot-tall minotaur.

“Napoleon,” I said. “How’s life treating you?”

He returned the minotaur equivalent of a smile. It looked more like a grimace. “I can’t complain.” His voice came out low and scratchy. “Why don’t you fellows go on in? I’ll keep the vultures at bay.”

“I owe you one, Napoleon,” Herc said.

“Anytime.”

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