Crime Novel Pseudonym Novels & Stories

Fingers flew over keyboards, and screens filled with files, names, and photos, but none of them matched who they were looking for. “This doesn’t make sense,” Officer Mathews said, his brows furrowing as he scanned the data. “We’ve checked every record we have. No ‘Papiro’ anywhere in the system.” Detective Lewis sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe it’s a nickname, or an alias. He could be using a fake name to cover his tracks.” Chief Grant Hudson nodded, looking at Detective James. “It’s possible. These guys don’t seem like amateurs. They know how to stay out of the system.”

I asked. He shrugged. "They'll say the pictures were doctored. They'll prove that I'm Austin Wireman. Thank you for that pseudonym, by the way. And confirm that we are simply working together. We were at the hotel for a case, et cetera et cetera," he said. I sighed with relief. "Thank you," I whispered. He smiled thinly. "It's as much for me as it is for you. I don't want people recognizing me. I enjoy living my life just as it is. Plus, it might held with public opinion but it won't help with this." He pointed to the house.

The pages were fluttering in the freezing wind howling through the broken window, the black ink of the handwritten draft looking like rows of jagged teeth in the dim snow-glare. I flipped to the final page. The text was frantic, the letters turning from Arthur’s neat script into a chaotic, trembling scrawl that matched the erratic pulse of the network outside. The Ninety-Day Clause was never a lease on life, the line read. *It was a lease on the pseudonym. To reclaim the Wolfe, the Sterling must die. To save the Hart, the author must use her real name. The roof of the cab groaned as *The Echo* tore through the outer sheet metal, its massive, unpolished steel faceplate staring down through th

How she will end an unfinished story. Almost three days later, Axel closed the book and leaned back on his chair. He was completely immersed in it. He couldn’t believe how she did that. It was like she possessed Denitslava’s magic and completely entranced him in reading this. She was this good. His eyes drifted to the author’s pseudonym on the bottom of the cover as a small smile made its way to his lips. L.M.H., which are the initials of her full name. He knew that. Would’ve been better if it was L.M.H.-E. though.

It was weird to hear my voice, though. “So what were you writing back there?” “I love writing novels. Fantasy.” “Have you published what you wrote?” “I have, but I can’t tell you because I write anonymously.” He smiled. “That’s kinda cool, writing behind a nom de plume.” “What about you? What do you do?” “Aside from working for a dangerous criminal like Alonso. Of course, this is a temporary source of income, but I was a college student, taking automotive design, when COVID happened. Before I worked for Alonso, I was a server at a restaurant downtown.”

> "Note: a URL from one of her pseudonym blogs links to an article referencing diner locations frequented by political families. One entry was a spot in upstate New York. Same place Damian and Devon were last seen together, publicly." He clicked the link. The blog was still live, barely. Old WordPress layout. Minimal followers. But the words chilled him: > "The truth never dies—it just waits for someone desperate enough to sell it.” There was no byline. Just the signature: Crimson & Slate. Michael made mention of that alias earlier. It had once published a rumor about a Manhattan socialite's abortion being covered up by hush money. If she’d used this blog before, she might use it again. So o

“He used the identity of Charles Gideon. Made himself look like him and stole his life. In that way no one suspects him, with a little reason of amnesia, the con artist got his way.” Cath gritted her teeth in anger, knowing that the person who slipped from their hands caused the biggest breaking news and catapulted her career to the journalist that everyone knew by her pen name Rose. Is all along hiding with another identity in this state. “Evidence?” Nadia immediately asks, knowing how quickly Cath works especially in this kind of case. “I’m still looking for solid ones. His current stolen identity is clean, but I know him. I just need some time and the right person to help me with this cas

“Did he ever tell you that?” Declan shook his head but remained quiet. “I write horror. Have you ever heard of A.A. Abernathy?” Declan’s eyes widened and he nodded. “I’ve read them all. Mason got me onto them.” Lisa blushed. “That’s me. I write under a pen name.” He grinned at her. “That’s fucking amazing,” he said. “I never would’ve guessed that a sweet thing like you could write such twisted shit.” She shrugged. “I have a lot of issues. I find killing people with prose goes a long way to sorting out my shit.”

…What evil-wolf-husband? I blinked, confused for a second, then it hit me. Rebecca’s book. Gosh she really has terrible taste in book titles. A laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. It was surprising that Margaux knew about Rebecca’s book, but it also lightened the mood a little. "You know about the book? And you immediately figured it out based on that?" "Well, she did use pseudonyms for the characters," Margaux said with a sly grin. "But some of us can still put two and two together."

For the second time, I rerouted my sight into his direction. "How do you know my pen name?" He chuckled, his voice as if it crawled up straight from the grave. "Who wouldn't know a fictional character murderer? Of course, you're the famous gore novelist who hasn't updated her on-going story for months now." Right at the moment, I shrugged off my shoulders and took a glance at the dead cosmos. Biting my lips as I was trying to formulate the exact words to say. "So you're one of my Egg Cells?" I beamed and faced him again with a wide smile.