Excerpt from A Death in Denmark by Amulya Malladi, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"How are you, Leila?"

She nodded, and something twinkled in her eyes. "When are you done? I need your help."

I raised my eyebrows. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine after ... what, nearly a decade?

"My help?" I sipped my beer, simply to have something to do with my hands.

"Yes," she confirmed.

I gave myself a moment to think before I responded, even though I knew I didn't need the time. No matter what was or was not there between us, if she was asking for my help, I'd give it to her.

"Okay," I said. "It's going to be another hour. If it's urgent ..."

She shook her head.

"Buy me another Johnnie Walker," she held up her nearly empty glass, "and I'll wait."

"You need my help, but I have to buy the Johnnie?" I waved to Ricky, the barman, and pointed to Leila's glass. He nodded.

"Yes. After all you are making me wait." She was lightening the mood between us, asking me to join in and play.

I smiled as I watched the bartender make a beeline for us, Johnnie in hand. "My man Ricky will take care of you."

As I was leaving, my back turned to her, I heard her softly whisper, "Thank you, Gabriel."


I walked my bicycle, my guitar strapped to my back, beside Leila to Southern Cross Pub on Løngangstræde close to Mojo and Rådhus, the city hall. I knew the pub well, because it was open until 5:00 a.m., and people like me who stayed out late into the morning went there when they didn't want to go home. And the bartender made an old-fashioned that could beat the pants off the designer crap they sold in chic Copenhagen bars, where it cost twice as much.

It was three in the morning and the crowd was winding down. Once I parked my bicycle and locked it, we sat at one of the outdoor tables warmed by an overhead infrared heat lamp. I didn't pick up the blanket that was draped on the chair to cover myself. I was wearing my Burberry trench, because Mojo was a good fifteen-minute ride on my bicycle to my apartment, and even though summer was in the air, the spring chill hadn't quite left the party. I set my guitar case on the chair next to me.

Smokers stood outside, around the door, their alcohol-laden voices carrying through the night.

Leila draped a blanket across her lap.

"You cold?" I asked. "We can go in."

She shook her head. "I'm fine."

A waiter came along, and I ordered an old-fashioned while she ordered another Johnnie Walker, still neat. Her third of the night, I counted, and those were the ones I knew about. One thing about Leila, she could drink most people under the table.

"How can I help you?" I asked once we were settled in, waiting for our drinks.

"You've gotten better," she said and then on a smile added, "at the guitar."

I could've responded with a double entendre about other things I'd gotten better at, but it was too easy and a little unsophisticated, so I said, "Time and practice."

She nodded but didn't say anything. I didn't say anything. I waited for her to tell me how I could help her.

Knowing Leila, coming to me was a last resort. The relationship hadn't ended well. There had been yelling and screaming, and plenty of fighting. She had thrown a few things at me. I had maybe made a few churlish and snide remarks, which had instigated the throwing of things at me. That had been a decade ago. We'd both grown up since then. I didn't enter relationships anymore, so I hadn't had to end any—there was always less drama with relationships that lasted a couple of months than there was for ones that lasted a couple of years and rocked your world.

"If I could have gotten anyone else to do it, trust me ... ," she trailed off, telling me she was as uncomfortable as I had thought she might be, coming to me for help. It didn't sit well with me. I didn't know why.

Excerpted from A Death in Denmark by Amulya Malladi. Copyright © 2023 by Amulya Malladi. Excerpted by permission of William Morrow Paperbacks. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.