Jan 212014
 

WELCOME BACK FRANCES FYFIELD

FRANCES FYFIELD

“I grew up in rural Derbyshire, but my adult life has been spent mostly in London, with long intervals in Norfolk and Deal, all inspiring places. I was educated mostly in convent schools; then studied English and went on to qualify as a solicitor, working for what is now the Crown Prosecution Service, thus learning a bit about murder at second hand. Years later, writing became the real vocation, although the law and its ramifications still haunt me and inform many of my novels. I’m a novelist, short story writer for magazines and radio, sometime Radio 4 contributor, (Front Row, Quote Unquote, Night Waves,) and presenter of Tales from the Stave. When I’m not working (which is as often as possible), I can be found in the nearest junk/charity shop or auction, looking for the kind of paintings which enhance my life. Otherwise, with a bit of luck, I’m relaxing by the sea with a bottle of wine and a friend or two.”-Frances Fyfield
Connect with Frances at these sites:

WEBSITE       

ABOUT THE BOOK

Pip Carlton is a devoted husband and a highly respected pharmacist, cherished by his loyal customers. When his wife dies in her sleep, with no apparent cause, he is distraught. Comforted by his caring assistant, Pip ignores the rumors about Margaret’s death, relieved that the police seem to have moved on.

But Prosecutor Helen West refuses to believe that Margaret simply slipped into her final slumber. As she probes deeper into the affairs of the neighborhood, she uncovers a viper’s nest of twisted passion, jealous rage, and lethal addictions.

As a sudden act of violence erupts, shaking the community, one lone man, armed with strange love potions, prepares to murder again…

READ AN EXCERPT

Pip Carlton is a devoted husband and a highly respected pharmacist, cherished by his loyal customers. When his wife dies in her sleep, with no apparent cause, he is distraught. Comforted by his caring assistant, Pip ignores the rumors about Margaret’s death, relieved that the police seem to have moved on.

But Prosecutor Helen West refuses to believe that Margaret simply slipped into her final slumber. As she probes deeper into the affairs of the neighborhood, she uncovers a viper’s nest of twisted passion, jealous rage, and lethal addictions.

As a sudden act of violence erupts, shaking the community, one lone man, armed with strange love potions, prepares to murder again…

He checked the window, but the unbearable sobbing continued and suddenly the idea was fully formed, plucked out of cold storage into the stuffy heat. The window was shut. No ventilation, no moving air as he returned to bed and took her stiff little body in his arms.
‘Come on, sweetheart, there, there, there.’ She clutched him so hard he could feel her long nails digging into his shoulders. His sweating had stopped and his skin to her touch felt as cold as ice.

BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Crime Fiction
Published by: Witness Impulse
Publication Date: 1/21/2014
Number of Pages: 276
ISBN: 9780062303967

PURCHASE LINKS:

       

   

PICT_badge

If you’d like to join in on an upcoming tour just stop by our sites and sign up today!

Follow the Tour and enter for a chance to win a copy of DEEP SLEEP


a Rafflecopter giveaway
DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

Oct 292013
 

WELCOME JAMES BARNEY


JAMES BARNEY

James Barney is the critically acclaimed author of The Genesis Key. He is an attorney who lives outside Washington, D.C., with his wife and two children.
Connect with James at these sites:

WEBSITE       

Q&A with James Barney

Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?
— I definitely draw from personal experience.  For instance, some of the action in the opening chapter of The Joshua Stone was inspired by my experiences as an engineering officer aboard a fast-attack nuclear submarine.  The scenes in Russia were inspired by my visit to Moscow a few years ago.  And the descriptions of particular buildings and locations in Washington, DC were all based on my personal observations.

Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the storyline brings you?
— More of the latter.  I have a rough idea where the story will go, and I generally know how it will end.  But I let each chapter develop on its own and allow the story to change as necessary to keep it interesting and exciting.

Your routine when writing?  Any idiosyncrasies?
— For me, it’s catch-as-catch-can.  I write when I can find the time and have the inspiration.  My favorite time to write is early in the morning when the house is quiet and my mind is clear.

Is writing your full time job?  If not, may I ask what you do by day?
— I’m a lawyer by day.

Who are some of your favorite authors?
— Michael Crichton, Stephen King, Douglas Preston, Lee Child, Steve Berry, James Rollins, John Grisham, Scott Turow, and others.

What are you reading now?
— “Our Kind of Traitor” by John Le Carre’

Are you working on your next novel?  Can you tell us a little about it?
— Yes.  All I can say is it will be another exciting adventure for Mike Califano and Ana Thorne.

Your novel will be a movie.  Who would you cast?
— Jennifer Lawrence, Bradley Cooper, Philip Seymour Hoffman.

Would you rather read or watch TV/movie?
— Depends on my mood.

ABOUT THE BOOK
Some secrets belong to the past. Others refuse to stay there…
In 1959, in an underground laboratory in a remote region of West Virginia, a secret government experiment went terribly awry. Half a dozen scientists mysteriously disappeared, and all subsequent efforts to rescue them failed. In desperation, President Eisenhower ordered the lab sealed shut and all records of its existence destroyed. Now, fifty-four years later, something from the lab has emerged.
When mysterious events begin occurring along the New River Valley in West Virginia, government agents Mike Califano and Ana Thorne are sent to investigate. What they discover will shake the foundations of science and religion and put both agents in the crosshairs of a deadly, worldwide conspiracy. A powerful and mysterious force has been unleashed, and it’s about to fall into the wrong hands. To prevent a global catastrophe, Califano and Thorne must work together to solve a biblical mystery that has confounded scholars for centuries. And they must do so quickly, before time runs out . . . forever.
READ AN EXCERPT
PROLOGUE
Thurmond, West Virginia
October 5, 1959
IT was time. Dr. Franz Holzberg stood at the security desk of the Thurmond National Laboratory and waited patiently for the guard to buzz him through the heavy steel door that provided access to the lab. Funny, he thought as he waited. They don’t even know what they’re guarding. He shook his head and considered that thought for a moment.
If they only knew . . .
A second later, the door opened with a loud buzz, and Holzberg stepped into a steel enclosure about five feet square and seven feet tall. He turned to face the guard and pulled a chain-link safety gate across the opening.
“Ready?” asked the guard.
Holzberg nodded, and the compartment in which he stood suddenly lurched downward and began its long descent toward the laboratory spaces, nine hundred feet below the ground.
Two minutes later, the elevator shuddered to a halt, and Dr. Holzberg exited into a wide, empty passageway, about twenty feet across and two hundred feet long. The cracked, concrete floor was sparsely illuminated by overhead industrial lighting. A pair of rusty trolley rails ran down the middle of the corridor—a remnant of the mining operations that had once taken place there decades earlier.
Holzberg took a deep breath and savored the pungent smell of sulfur and stagnant water. After three long years of working on this project, he actually felt more at home underground than in the charmless cinder-block rambler that the government had provided for him “up top,” in Thurmond.
He started off toward the laboratory at the end of the corridor, his footsteps echoing loudly throughout the vast space. As he walked, the protocol for Experiment TNL-213 streamed through his mind for the thousandth time. Today is the day, he reminded himself, allowing just the faintest of smiles. Today, God would heed his command. Just as God heeded Joshua’s command at Gibeon.
Holzberg passed through the laboratory’s heavy security door and entered a long, rectangular room resembling a tunnel, with unpainted cement walls, ceiling, and floor.
The middle of the room was dominated by a large pool of water, twenty by thirty feet across and thirty feet deep, with a steel catwalk extending across it. A sturdy steel railing circumscribed the edge of the pool. Overhead, four long rows of incandescent bulbs illuminated the entire room with bright, white light. High up on the walls, thick, multicolored bundles of wires and cables snaked like garlands across sturdy brackets, with smaller bundles dropping down at uneven intervals to various lab equipment and workstations around the room.
Holzberg spotted four technicians in white lab coats busily preparing the lab for the upcoming experiment. He acknowledged them with a nod and then quickly made his way to an elevated control room overlooking the pool. He entered without knocking and greeted the room’s sole occupant, a bespectacled man in a white lab coat. “Good morning, Irwin,” said Holzberg in a thick German accent. “How are the modifications coming along?”
Dr. Irwin Michelson swiveled on his stool. He was a wiry man in his midthirties, with disheveled black hair and a two-day- old beard. He pushed his glasses up on his nose.
“They’re done,” he said.
“Done? You’ve tested it?”
“We changed out the power supply, like you suggested, and increased the cooling flow to two hundred gallons per minute. We tested it last night and were able to generate a ninety tesla pulse for twenty-five seconds with no overheating. We probably could go higher if we needed to.”
“Good. And the sensors and transducers?”
“All set.”
Holzberg nodded appreciatively to his tireless assistant.
“Sehr gut. Then let’s proceed.”
It took nearly three hours for Holzberg, Michelson, and their team of four technicians to complete the exhaustive checklist for TNL-213.
This experiment had taken three years to plan and had required millions of dollars in upgrades and modifications to the lab.
Nothing would be left to chance today.
By early afternoon they’d finished their thorough inspection of the equipment. They’d checked, double-checked, and triple-checked each of the hundreds of valves, levers, and switches associated with the lab’s “swimming pool” test rig. Everything was positioned according to a detailed test protocol that Dr. Holzberg carried in a thick binder prominently marked top secret—winter solstice.
Michelson knelt on the steel catwalk that bridged the 160,000-gallon pool of water and carefully inspected a rectangular steel chamber that was suspended above the water by four thick cables. Numerous electrical sensors were welded to the exterior of this chamber, and a rainbow of waterproof wires radiated out from it, coiling upward toward a thick, retractable wiring harness above the catwalk.
“Transducers are secure,” Michelson said over his shoulder.
“Good,” said Holzberg from the railing. He made a checkmark in his notebook and read the next step of the protocol aloud. “Mount the seed.”
Michelson stood and turned slowly to face his mentor.
“So it’s time?”
Holzberg nodded.
Michelson dragged a hand over his unshaven face and cracked a smile. “God, this . . . this is incredible.” He was barely able to contain his excitement. “This’ll give us a whole new understanding of the universe.”
“Perhaps,” said Holzberg.
“Right, perhaps. And perhaps the Nobel Prize, too.”
“No,” said Holzberg firmly, his expression suddenly turning dark.
“But . . . if this works, we could publish our findings. By then the government—”
“Irwin, no. We’ve had this discussion before.”
Michelson sighed and looked deflated. “Right, I know. Not until the world is ready.”
Holzberg inched closer to his protégé. “Irwin, this is a responsibility you must accept. Einstein himself was confounded by this material.”
“Einstein was overrated,” Michelson mumbled.
“Perhaps. But that does not change the fact that we have been entrusted with something very special here. We must study and solve it. Until we do, it is simply too dangerous to expose to the world. That is our burden. Do you understand?”
Michelson nodded sheepishly. Holzberg patted his younger colleague’s shoulder.
“Good. Now, let’s get the seed.”
The two men made their way to the far end of the room, where a circular vault was mounted flush with the cement wall. The vault door was protected by a bank-grade, dual-combination lock with twin tumblers. “Ready?” Holzberg asked.
Michelson nodded.
One after the other, the two men turned the pair of dials on the vault door four times each, alternating clockwise and counterclockwise. When the last of the eight numbers had been entered, Michelson pulled down hard on the heavy handle in the center of the door, and the vault opened with a metallic ka-chunk. He swung the door open slowly, and, as he did, the vault’s lights flickered, illuminating the interior with an ethereal blue light.
There was only one object in the vault: a clear glass cylinder about eight inches high and four inches in diameter housing an irregular black clump about the size of a golf ball. “The seed,” Holzberg whispered as he reached inside and retrieved the cylinder, cradling it carefully in both hands. He held it up to the light and peered inside. “Your secrets unfold today.”
Thirty minutes later, with the seed securely mounted in its special test chamber, and the chamber lowered deep into the pool, the two scientists returned to the control room for their final preparations.
“Transducer twenty-one?” said Holzberg, reading aloud from the test protocol.
Michelson pressed a button on the complex control panel and verified that transducer 21 was providing an appropriate signal. “Check.”
“Transducer twenty-two?”
Michelson repeated the procedure for transducer 22.
“Check.”
“That’s it then,” said Holzberg, turning to a new page in his notebook. “We’re ready.”
He checked his watch, which indicated 4:15 p.m. Then he picked up a microphone that was attached to the control panel by a long wire. “Gentlemen,” he announced over the lab’s PA system. “We are ready to commence experiment 213. Please take your positions.”
In the lab space below, the four technicians quickly took up positions at their various workstations. One after another, they gave the thumbs-up signal that they were ready.
“Energize the steady-field magnet,” announced Holzberg.
A loud, steady hum suddenly filled the lab, followed by the sound of rotating equipment slowly whirring to life.
Several seconds later, Michelson quietly reported over his shoulder that the steady-field magnet was energized and warming up.
“Remember,” Holzberg said, “bring it up slowly.”
Michelson nodded. “We’re at thirteen teslas and rising,” he said, his attention focused on a circular dial on the control panel.
“And the cooling water outlet temperature?”
Michelson glanced at another gauge. “Sixty-two degrees.”
Eight minutes later, Michelson announced they were at 25 teslas, the peak field for the steady-field magnet.
“Outlet temperature’s creeping up slightly,” he added with a hint of caution.
“What about delta T?”
Michelson pushed a button and read from a gauge on his panel. “Nothing yet. Zero point zero.”
Holzberg pressed the microphone button and announced to the lab, “Prepare to energize the pulse magnet.”
There was a flurry of activity in the lab space below as the technicians quickly went about opening valves, flipping switches, and starting various pumps and other equipment. Eventually, all four gave the thumbs-up signal.
“Ready,” reported Michelson.
Holzberg swallowed hard. This was it. He paused for a moment before giving the final command. “Energize it now.”
Michelson pulled down on an electrical breaker until it clicked loudly into place. A deep buzzing sound immediately permeated the entire laboratory. The overhead lights dimmed momentarily and then slowly returned to their original intensity. “Energized,” he reported nervously.
“Bring it up slowly.”
“Total field is twenty-seven point three teslas.” Michelson was slowly turning a large knob in the center of the control panel.
“Outlet temperature?”
“Seventy-eight degrees.”
“Keep going.”
Michelson continued turning the knob slowly until the magnetic-field strength had reached 70 teslas. There he paused and quickly checked his instruments.
“Outlet temperature is one hundred twenty-two degrees and rising,” he said nervously. “We don’t have much more room.”
“Any delta T?”
Michelson checked again and shook his head. “No. Still zero point zero.”
“Keep going,” said Holzberg.
Michelson nodded and again twisted the dial clockwise. He read out the magnetic-field strengths as he went.
“Seventy-six point four. Seventy-eight point zero. Eighty point two . . .”
“Temperatures, Irwin.”
Michelson quickly turned his attention to the outlet temperature gauge. “One hundred forty-five degrees and rising.”
“Keep going,” Holzberg said.
“Eighty-one teslas,” said Michelson nervously. “Eighty-two. Eighty-three.”
His voice cracked slightly. “Uh . . . we’re getting close to the outlet limit.”
“Any delta T yet?”
Michelson quickly checked. “No. Zero point zero.”
“We need a higher field.” Holzberg touched Michelson’s shoulder and nodded emphatically for him to continue.
Michelson’s voice grew increasingly nervous as he continued reporting the rising magnetic-flux levels. “Eighty-seven point three. Eighty-eight point four. Eighty-nine point six . . . ninety point one.”
Suddenly, there was a loud beep, and an amber light began flashing on the control panel.
“Outlet temperature alarm,” Michelson reported. “One hundred seventy-five degrees and still rising. Should I bring it back down?”
“No,” said Holzberg firmly. “We need a higher field.”
Michelson started to protest, but Holzberg cut him off.
“Irwin, the flux levels!”
Michelson snapped his attention back to the control panel. “Ninety-three point one . . . ninety-four point four . . .shit.”
Another shrill alarm sounded on the panel.
“Core temperature alarm!” Michelson shouted above the noise. “We’ve got to shut it down!” He began turning the knob counterclockwise.
“No!” Holzberg barked, grabbing his arm. “Check the delta T.”
Michelson wiped his brow and checked. “Delta T is . . . zero point one seconds.”
“My God,” Holzberg whispered. “It’s working!”
“Zero point two seconds,” Michelson reported, still holding down the button. “Zero point three . . . zero point four.”
“Bring it up just a bit more,” said Holzberg over the constant noise of the two alarms.
“But—”
“Do it!” Holzberg snapped.
Michelson swallowed hard and slowly tweaked the knob clockwise to increase the power to the pulse magnet.
“We’re gonna lift a relief valve.”
“What’s the reading?”
Michelson pushed the delta T button. “Whoa . . .”
“What is it?”
“Ten point five seconds. That’s incredible.” He continued holding the button down. “Fourteen seconds . . . twenty . . . thirty . . . fifty . . .”
“We’ve done it!” Holzberg exclaimed, patting Michelson on the back. “Okay, you can bring it back down now.”
Michelson quickly began twisting the knob counterclockwise. After several seconds, however, he suddenly looked confused.
“What is it?”
“Outlet temperature’s . . . still going up.” Michelson quickly pushed the button for delta T again. “Holy shit.”
Holzberg leaned in close and observed that the dial for delta T was now spinning rapidly clockwise. An odometer-style counter below the dial indicated that the accumulated value was now at 500 seconds . . . 600 seconds . . . 700 seconds.. . . The dial was spinning faster and faster.
“Shut it down!” Holzberg bellowed.
“I am. Look!” Michelson showed that he had already twisted the knob for the pulse magnet all the way to the left.
“Cut the power!”
At that moment, a thunderous scream erupted in the lab space below, and thick plumes of steam instantly billowed up from the pool. The technicians could be heard screaming emphatically to each other.
“Relief valves are lifting!” Michelson yelled over the cacophony.
Holzberg was just about to say something when suddenly there was a blinding flash of white light below. Instinctively, he shielded his eyes.
“My God,” Michelson shouted. “Look at that!”
Holzberg uncovered his eyes and gazed in awe at the spectacle now occurring in the lab below him. A brilliant aura of light was hovering directly above the reactor pool, swirling in undulating patterns of blue, green, red, and yellow. The aura lasted for several seconds before giving way to a violent, blinding column of light that shot suddenly out of the pool, straight to the ceiling.
Holzberg again shielded his eyes.
A split second later, there was a loud whoosh and the entire lab filled with blinding white light. The control room windows shattered instantly, and Dr. Holzberg hit the floor.
The blinding light and whooshing sound subsided after several seconds, leaving in their place a terrifying jumble of alarm sirens and horns and the panicked shouts of the technicians below. Holzberg groped on hands and knees through the broken glass until he found the prone body of Dr. Michelson, who was either unconscious or dead.
“Irwin!” said Dr. Holzberg.
There was no response.
With effort, Holzberg pulled himself to his feet and gazed in utter disbelief at the chaos unfolding below him.
“Mein Gott,” he whispered. “What have we done?”
A second later, a man in a black leather coat suddenly appeared in the lab space below, seemingly from nowhere. Who is that? Holzberg wondered, utterly confused. And why does he look familiar?
BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Thriller/Suspense
Published by: William Morrow Paperbacks
Publication Date: 10/8/2013
Number of Pages: 416
ISBN: 978006202139

PURCHASE LINKS:

           

PICT_badge

If you’d like to join in on an upcoming tour just stop by our sites and sign up today!

Follow the Tour:



DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

Oct 232013
 

WELCOME STEPHEN BOOTH

STEPHEN BOOTH

Stephen Booth is an award winning British crime writer, the creator of two young Derbyshire police detectives, DC Ben Cooper and DS Diane Fry, who have appeared in twelve novels set in England’s beautiful and atmospheric Peak District.

Stephen has been a Gold Dagger finalist, an Anthony Award nominee, twice winner of a Barry Award for Best British Crime Novel, and twice shortlisted for the Theakston’s Crime Novel of the Year. Ben Cooper was a finalist for the Sherlock Award for the best detective created by a British author, and in 2003 the Crime Writers’ Association presented Stephen with the Dagger in the Library Award for “the author whose books have given readers the most pleasure”.

The Cooper & Fry series is published all around the world, and has been translated into 15 languages. The latest title is DEAD AND BURIED, with a new book, ALREADY DEAD, published in June 2013.
Connect with Stephen Booth at these sites:

WEBSITE        TWITTER   

Q&A with Stephen Booth

Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?
I think all writers make use of their personal experiences, though they may not be recognisable by the time they appear in a fictional story. In fact, it’s quite therapeutic to take something that’s happened to you and write about! I try to make my Cooper & Fry novels as contemporary as possible, so my characters’ lives will be affected by things happening in the real world at the time. Actually, since I’m working on a novel up to 12 months before it’s published, I’m trying to predict the future a bit.

Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the storyline brings you?
When I set out to write a new book, I have no idea what’s going to happen, or how it will end. I write in a very ‘organic’ way, starting with vague ideas about a few characters and a place they belong to. I write around them until I start to know who they are. Then I put them into a situation where they’re under pressure (this will normally involve a murder or a dead body, of course!), and I watch what they do. So the story arises out of the characters, and it’s always a discovery process for me as I write it. Luckily, I’m writing about police detectives, so I rely on them to do their part of the job and ask all the questions!

Your routine when writing?  Any idiosyncrasies?
I’m one of those writers who doesn’t really have a routine. I know the way to kick-start the creative process at any time of the day is to sit down and start writing. But I do most of my writing in the evening, sometimes into the early hours of the morning. It’s quieter then, with fewer distractions. One of the drawbacks to working from home is that everyone knows you’re there and available! So it’s hard to create the sort of structured working day you have in most jobs. When I’m writing, I tend to listen either to music, or to drama and talk programmes on the radio. Something I’ve just heard in the background can often pop an idea into my head (BBC Radio 4 is wonderful for this).

Is writing your full time job?  If not, may I ask what you do by day?
Yes, I’ve been a full-time writer for the past 12 years. Before that, I was a newspaper journalist. I started my first reporter’s job at the age of 21, after I graduated – so I suppose writing (or at least editing) has always been my job.

Who are some of your favorite authors?
I grew up on Agatha Christie and the great, classic British crime novelists (who all seemed to be female). Of that older generation, the writer who can still produce something new and interesting after all this time is Ruth Rendell. Some of her books, like ‘A Judgement in Stone’, are extraordinary achievements. But I have many other favourites, including Reginald Hill, Peter Robinson and Michael Connelly.

What are you reading now?
I’ve been asked by the British Library to write introductions for two novels being re-issued in their Classic Crime series. They’re by a long-forgotten British mystery writer from the Golden Age called M. Doriel Hay, and they’re classics of their period.

Are you working on your next novel?  Can you tell us a little about it?
Yes, I’m currently writing book #14 in the Cooper and Fry series, which is called ‘The Corpse Bridge’. I hope the title suggests there might be a dead body or two! The story uses an aspect of the Peak District’s history and folklore to create a modern-day mystery. The old ‘corpse ways’ were routes taken by mourners carrying a coffin for burial, sometimes for miles over difficult terrain. When the local land-owning aristocrat decides to re-develop the villagers’ burial ground for his own commercial gain, new corpses start to appear…

Your novel will be a movie.  Who would you cast?
I’m asked this question a lot, since the Cooper and Fry novels are currently in development for a TV series in the UK. And readers definitely have their own opinions! But as an author I think it’s very risky to start getting pictures of an actor in my head. There are no actors exactly like my mental image of Ben Cooper or Diane Fry, and the danger is that you can lose your original character if you focus too much on an actor. If and when it comes to casting, it will be someone else’s interpretation of the character, and I’m quite relaxed about that.

Would you rather read or watch TV/movie?
No contest here! I must be one of the few people left in the world who doesn’t own a TV (and I never have). For me, there’s a huge difference. When you’re watching TV, the story is going on over there in the corner of the room. But when you’re reading a book, the story is taking place inside your head. And the pictures are better too! I do watch movies, but I tend to go for something spectacular and undemanding, where I’m not expected get involved with the characters too much. Cinema does that very well.

Favorite food?
Cantonese Dim Sum

Favorite beverage?
I’m a rare teetotal Brit, so an Apple and Mango juice will suit me, thanks!

 

ABOUT THE BOOK

The helicopters are halted. The search for fifteen-year-old Laura Vernon ends when her body is found, murdered, in the forest.

On his hunt for the killer, detective Ben Cooper begins to suspect the people of Derbyshire are guarding some dark secrets-secrets that Laura might have known. Further complicating his investigation, Cooper is paired with an unfamiliar partner: Diane Fry, a woman as tenacious as she is alluring. Together they learn that in order to understand the town’s present, they must unearth its past.

Black Dog is like Twin Peaks by way of Tana French, and the first novel in the multiple award-winning Cooper and Fry series.

READ AN EXCERPT

The spot where Ben Cooper stood was remote and isolated. A passing walker wouldn’t have been able to see him up here among the bracken, even if he’d bothered to look up.

Cooper turned round, wafting his hand across his face against the flies. He was looking through the trees and thick brambles as if towards the end of a dark tunnel, where the figure of Harry Dickinson was framed in a network of branches. Cooper had to squint against a patch of dazzling light that soaked the hillside in strong colours. The old man stood in the glare of the low sun, with hot rocks shimmering around him like a furnace. The haze of heat made his outline blur and writhe, as if he were dancing a slow shimmy. His shadow, flung across the rocks, seemed to wriggle and jerk as its shape fragmented among the bracken and brambles.

 The expression in Harry’s eyes was unreadable, his face lying partly in the shade from the peak of his cap. Cooper couldn’t even tell which way he was looking, whether he’d turned away or was staring directly towards him in the trees. He wanted to grab the old man by the shoulders and shake him. He wanted to tell him that somebody had disturbed this spot, and recently. The evidence was right there for anyone to see, and to smell.

 There had been two people here, and at least one of them had been looking for more than just rabbits. The smell that lingered under the trees was of stale blood. And the flies had found something even more attractive than Cooper’s sweat to feed on.

BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Fiction/Crime
Published by: Witness / HarperCollins
Publication Date: 10/8/2013
ISBN: 9780062301963
Series: 1st in the Ben Cooper & Diane Fry Series

PURCHASE LINKS:

           

PICT_badge

If you’d like to join in on an upcoming tour just stop by our sites and sign up today!

Follow the Tour:



DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

Oct 232013
 

WELCOME JAMES HAYMAN


JAMES HAYMAN

James Hayman is a native New Yorker having been born in Brooklyn and raised in Manhattan. Like many city kids, he was sent off to a New England boarding school at fourteen. Eight years later he graduated from Brown University and returned to New York where he spent the next twenty-five years working as a copywriter and creative director at some of Madison Avenue’s biggest ad agencies, creating print and TV advertising for clients like the US Army, Lincoln Mercury, Merrill Lynch and Procter & Gamble. After deciding that the New York agency business was “no country for old men,” Jim left Madison Avenue and moved to Portland, Maine where he worked for several years as a freelance business writer, publishing dozens of articles and two non-fiction business books. In 2007 he decided to follow in the footsteps of other former “Madmen” (James Patterson, Stuart Woods, Chris Grabenstein and Ted Bell to name just a few) and begin a new career writing suspense/thrillers. His debut novel, THE CUTTING was the first in a planned series featuring Portland homicide detectives Michael McCabe and Maggie Savage. It was quickly published and garnered rave reviews both in the print media and online. THE CUTTING was followed by THE CHILL OF NIGHT. Both books have been published around the world and translated into six languages. The third McCabe/Savage thriller, DARKNESS FIRST, is due from Harper Collins’ new Witness imprint in October. Jim lives in Portland with his wife, the artist Jeanne O’Toole Hayman.
Connect with James Hayman at these sites:

WEBSITE        TWITTER   

Q&A with James Hayman

Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?
Absolutely, both in terms of character and plot. I think every writer does.

For example, the story in Darkness First centers around the epidemic and very real abuse of and addiction to prescription painkillers in rural Maine. Much of what I wrote in the book grew out of conversations I had with the real life sheriff of Washington County where the book is set and an officer assigned to the Maine Drug Enforcement Agency. Darkness First also reflects the growing poverty of coastal towns in Washington County like Eastport and Machias where a once thriving fishing industry has largely crashed with the disappearance of the fish. Eastport was once home to more than a dozen sardine canneries.  None of them survive today, not even as the fictitious ruin in which I set a climactic scene in the novel.

My earlier book, The Chill of Night, is about child abuse.  Much of it is based on the scandals in the Catholic Church. A book titled Our Fathers was an invaluable resource as was a passing acquaintance I had with Father Bruce Ritter, a Franciscan priest and the celebrated founder of Covenant House in New York.  Ritter was later accused and found guilty of abuse, all the while posing as a champion and protector of runaway teens.

As for my characters, both my detectives, Mike McCabe and Maggie Savage, are drawn from real life.  As I’ve said elsewhere, McCabe is my alter-ego. We were both born and raised in New York City and later moved to Portland, Maine.  We both like good scotch whiskey, old movie trivia and the New York Giants.

Maggie, who I have a huge crush on, is based on a number of women I’ve known and cared for in my own life including my wife Jeanne.  I’ve also raised a beautiful intelligent daughter not unlike McCabe’s daughter Casey. All my books reflects that experience.

Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the story line brings you?
Both.  My story in Darkness First grew from a comment made by my source in the Maine DEA, that the nightmare scenario for the agency would be the smuggling of a huge quantity of Oxycontin tablets, by water, from Canada into the US. The book opens with exactly that scene.

You can read the prologue and first chapters for free on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Darkness-First-McCabe-Thriller-ebook/dp/B00CGZXQDU/ref=pd_sim_sbs_kstore_1  or Barnes & Noble.com www.jameshaymanthrillers.com/books .

Your routine when writing?  Any idiosyncrasies?
I mostly don’t write at home even though I have a beautiful house overlooking the ocean with a room I call my office.  When I’m there, I find it is too easy to be distracted by things that have to be taken care of. Especially, when I reach a hard place in the writing.

Consequently,  I try to treat writing as a job I have to report to. I get up and go to work each morning in the great reading room in the Glickman Library at the University of Southern Maine in Portland.

Is writing your full time job?  If not, may I ask what you do by day?
Writing is, for the most-part, my full-time job. When I say the most part, I mean that I also do some other things. I manage a couple of rental properties we own which, happily,  takes relatively little time.  I also occasionally accept freelance advertising or business writing assignments which can be fun and also help with any cash-flow issues. I’ve also served on the boards of a couple of non-profits, the Salt Institute of Documentary Studies and the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance which supports writers and writing in the State of Maine.

Who are some of your favorite authors?
There are many.

My favorites among mystery and thriller writers include James Lee Burke, Dennis Lehane, Tana French, Michael Connelly, Kate Atkinson, Alan Furst, Tony Hillerman, an Irish writer named Alan Glynn and, based on one book, “Gone Girl,” Gillian Flynn. I’m sure I’m forgetting others because I do read a lot.

Outside of the mystery/thriller genre, I like the books of Ian McEwan, J. M. Coetzee, Larry Brown, Erik Larsson, David McCullough, and greats like Saul Bellow, John Cheever and Philip Roth.  And, of course, there is Hemingway and Fitzgerald.

What are you reading now?
I’m currently in the middle of a very strong novel by a writer named Roxana Robinson who is quickly becoming one of my favorites. The book is called “Sparta,” and it’s about a young marine officer returning home from two tours in Iraq with a severe case of PTSD.  Robinson writes the book from the marine’s point of view and does a brilliant job of capturing the confusion and disorientation of suddenly finding oneself beyond the dangers of the war and back in the ease of middle class suburban life.

Are you working on your next novel?  Can you tell us a little about it?
I am. The book (as yet unnamed) is about McCabe and Savage investigating a series of murders in Portland that exactly mirror murders that took place on an island in Casco Bay more than one hundred years ago.  Mccabe’s photographic memory proves to be a help in unraveling the mystery. Beyond that I can’t say much without spoiling the tale.

Your novel will be a movie.  Who would you cast?
That’s a tough one. I sort of see McCabe as someone like Gerard Butler, or  maybe Clive Owen or possibly Patrick Dempsey.

I see Maggie as Anne Hathaway. Or maybe Katherine Heigl. Or Claire Danes.

Would you rather read or watch TV/movie?
Read. While there are TV shows that I think are terrific and that I’ve enjoyed (The Killing, Breaking Bad and The Wire among others), I find novels give me much more access to and involvement with the characters.

Favorite food?
 I’m definitely an omnivore.  As long as it’s well prepared, I love all kinds of food from great New York hot dogs to the fanciest French cuisine. You name it, I’ll eat it.

Favorite beverage?
I’m a Diet Coke addict. And a coffee addict.  I drink four or five cups of strong black brew a day. Beyond that, like my hero McCabe, I’ve always enjoyed good single-malt Scotch Whiskey.  Unlike McCabe, I now drink more red wine than whiskey, mostly Cabernets and Malbecs. I also like a lot of the terrific microbrews available in Maine, especially Peak Organic IPA and Geary’s Hampshire Special Ale.

ABOUT THE BOOK
Darkness First by James Hayman is the third book in the McCabe and Savage series.
The sadistically mutilated body of a young woman is found in the secluded seaside town of Machiasport, Maine and detective Maggie Savage is drawn home to solve the murder and restore peace. Maggie is the daughter of a sheriff, and justice is in her blood. What makes her so desperate for answers, though, is the fact that her dearest childhood was found just a few steps away from the corpse, comatose, with 150 tablets of Canadian Oxycontin in her pocket.
Maggie delves through the darkest parts of Machiasport, trying to find whichever doomed corner the murdered girl wandered into. After casing old haunts and interviewing the locals, whispers of a menacing character begin to surface: a faceless and nameless man who nobody knows but everybody fears.
In the tradition of John Sandford and William Kent Kreguer, Darkness First is a gruesome thriller about a small town rocked by a savage crime.
BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Thriller
Published by: Witness
Publication Date: 10/1/2013
Number of Pages: 434
ISBN: 9780062301697

PURCHASE LINKS:

       

PICT_badge

If you’d like to join in on an upcoming tour just stop by our sites and sign up today!

Follow the Tour:



DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

Aug 012013
 

 

WELCOME FAYE KELLERMAN


 

FAYE KELLERMAN

Faye Kellerman lives with her husband, New York Times bestselling author Jonathan Kellerman, in Los Angeles, California, and Santa Fe, New Mexico.
Connect with Ms. Kellerman at these sites:

WEBSITE       

ABOUT THE BOOK

Over his years with the LAPD, Peter Decker has handled a number of tough cases and strange killers. Few of his previous assignments compare to his latest case—the most bizarre of his storied career.

When Hobart Penny is found dead in his apartment, the cops think that his pet cat—an adult female tiger—attacked the reclusive elderly billionaire. But it soon becomes clear that the beast that killed the eccentric inventor is all too human. Digging into the victim’s life, Decker and his colleagues, Detectives Marge Dunn and Scott Oliver, discover that Penny was an exceptionally peculiar man with exotic tastes, including kinky sex with call girls.

Following a trail of clues that leads from a wildlife sanctuary in the San Bernardino Mountains to the wild nightlife of Las Vegas, the LAPD detectives are left juggling too many suspects and too few answers. To break open a case involving the two most primal instincts—sex and murder—Decker wrestles with a difficult choice: turning to a man with expert knowledge of both—Chris Donatti, the dangerous man who also happens to be the father of Decker’s foster son Gabriel Whitman, a boy not without his own problems.

As their work and intimate worlds collide, Decker and his wife, Rina, find themselves facing tough questions. It just might be that family crises and work-related responsibilities prove too much for Decker’s career. A confluence of ordeals can stress even the most intact of families. And when all these shocking truths comes out, exactly how well will Decker and Rina cope as well as survive?

READ AN EXCERPT
THE BEAST By Faye Kellerman
It was the stuff of nightmares, starting with the slow walk down the courtroom aisle: as if his stall tactics had the power to stop the inevitable. Seven hours of testimony, but it wasn’t the length of time that was horrific. When practicing the piano, Gabe had done marathon sessions twice as long as that. But he had always used his music to zone out, and that was impossible to do when being grilled on the witness stand. It had required concentrating on things he was trying so hard to forget: how that day had started out so normal and within minutes had turned into something almost deadly. By four in the afternoon, the trial had finally recessed and the prosecution was essentially done, although Gabe knew the lawyers would have more questions on redirect. He walked out of the courtroom with his foster mother, Rina Decker, on one side and his foster dad, the lieutenant, on the other. They guided him into a waiting car. Sergeant Marge Dunn was behind the wheel. She maneuvered the silent group through the streets of the San Fernando Valley—a suburb of L.A.—until they reached the driveway of the Decker house. Once inside, Gabe collapsed on the living room couch, took off his glasses, and closed his eyes. Rina took off her tam, liberating a sheet of black, shoulder-length hair, and regarded the boy. He was nearly bald—courtesy of an indie film he had starred in—and his complexion was pale and pasty. Little red bumps covered his forehead. She said, “I’m going to change and get dinner ready.” At the sound of her voice, Gabe opened his eyes. “You must be starving.”
“Actually I feel queasy.” He rubbed his green orbs and put his specs back on. “Once I start eating, I’m sure I’ll be okay.” Decker and Marge came in a moment later, chatting about business. The lieutenant loosened his tie, and then took a seat next to the boy. The poor kid was constantly jockeying back and forth between the teen and adult worlds. For the last year, his foster son had been at Juilliard, finishing almost two years in one. Decker threw his arm around the kid’s shoulder and kissed the top of his peach fuzz head. Gabe wasn’t totally bald, but what was growing in was blondish. Gabe asked, “How’d I do?” “Phenomenal,” Decker said. “I wish every witness I had was half as good as you.” Marge sat opposite the boys. “You were a dream for the prosecution: completely credible, plainspoken, and damn cute.” When Gabe smiled, she said, “Plus being a movie star doesn’t hurt.” “Oh Jeez. It was barely above a student film on a shoestring budget. It’ll never go anywhere.” Decker smiled. “You never know.” “Believe me, I know. Did I ever tell you about my breakdown scene? I’m running down this long hallway of the sanitarium buck naked with my hair flying in back as attendants in white coats try to catch me. When they catch me, they start to shave my head and I’m screaming, ‘not my hair, not my hair.’ I haven’t seen the movie, so I’ll have to take the director’s word that it was a great scene.” “You haven’t watched your own movie?” Marge asked. “No. Too embarrassed. Not at me being naked, but I’m pretty sure I’m a dreadful actor.”
Marge smiled, stood up, and picked a piece of pilled wool off of her beige sweater. “Well, gentlemen, I’ve got to go back to the station house. I left a pile of paperwork on my desk.” “Not to mention everything dropped in your lap,” Decker said. “Thanks for picking up the slack.” Rina walked in. She had donned a long-sleeved black T-shirt, a jean skirt, and slippers. “You’re not staying for dinner, Marge?” “Can’t. Too much work to do.” Decker looked at his watch. “I’ll come join you in about an hour if you’re still around. I’ll bring you a care package from tonight’s dinner.” “In that case, I’ll make sure I’m around.” Marge waved and left. Decker said to his wife, “You need any help?” “I’m fine. It’s been a long day and a little quiet is okay with me.” She disappeared into the kitchen. Gabe said, “I should shower. I smell pretty bad. I was sweating a lot.” “Normal.” “I suppose this is only a warm-up for tomorrow. Defense is going to have a field day with me.” “You’ll be fine. Just stick to who you are and tell the truth.” “That I’m the son of a hit man?” “Gabe—” “I mean who are we kidding? You know they’re gonna bring him up.” “Probably. And if they do, your lawyer will object, because Christopher Donatti is irrelevant.”
“He’s a criminal.” “He is, but you aren’t.” “He runs whorehouses.” “Whorehouses are legal in Nevada.” “He cut up Dylan Lashay and turned him into a mass of jelly.” “Now you’re speculating.” Decker looked at the boy. “Okay. I’m the defense and cross direct, okay.” He cleared his throat and tried to act like a lawyer. “Have you ever participated in anything criminal? And be careful what you answer.” Gabe thought a moment. “I smoked pot.” “Ever take pills?” “Prescription medication.” “Such as.” “Paxil, Xanax, Zoloft, Prozac … a cornucopia of pharmaceuticals. My doctors rotate around to see what’s affective. And the answer to that is—nothing.” “It is sufficient to just list the medications, Gabriel.” “I know.” “Are you anxious now?” “I’m very anxious.” “Good answer,” Decker said. “Who wouldn’t be anxious during this process? The prosecution has presented you today as a gifted teen that has gone through a very traumatic experience. On cross, defense will try to trip you up. They’ll ask you about your dad, they’ll ask you about me. Always pause before you answer to give the prosecution time to object. And whatever you do, don’t speculate. On redirect, the lawyers will make sure that the jury knows that you are not your father’s son.” Gabe said, “I don’t really care about myself. I’m worried about Yasmine. It kills me to picture her being hammered at by some jerk lawyer.” “She’s sixteen, sheltered, an A student, and physically, she’s small and delicate. She’ll probably cry. Everyone will go lightly on her. What they’ll do is ask her to repeat verbatim what Dylan and the others said to her and argue about the meaning of their statements. I’m sure the defense will say something like they were just kidding around. Bad taste, but no serious intent.” “Dylan was going to rape her.” “He might have even killed her if you didn’t step in.” Decker paused. “It could be she won’t make it to the witness box. After your testimony, they may try again for a plea bargain.” “Dylan’s completely physically messed up. Why didn’t they plea bargain in the first place?” “The Lashays wouldn’t agree to jail time. We offered them a prison hospital, but the parents wouldn’t take it, claiming the prison hospital doesn’t have the wherewithal to care for Dylan in his current state.” “Surely someone can wipe his drool,” Gabe muttered. “I hope he dies a terrible death.” “He probably will,” Decker said. “In the meantime, he’s living a terrible life.”
Riding with the windows down, Decker enjoyed the air after being locked away in a stuffy and tense courtroom. He wasn’t anticipating anything more than a mountain of paperwork to deal with, but then his cell went off just as he was parking in the station house’s lot. Bluetooth told him Marge Dunn was on the line. “Yo, Sergeant, I’m right outside.” “Stay there. I’m coming down.” The phone disconnected. A few minutes later, she came out of the building and jogged over to the car. Sliding onto the passenger seat, she closed the door. The night was cool, and she wrapped her hands in the sleeves of her knitted hoodie. She gave him the address, which was fifteen minutes away. There was a tense look on her face. “We have an issue.” “Yeah, I ascertained that.” “Do you remember an eccentric millionaire named Hobart Penny?” “Some kind of engineer-inventor. Made his money in aerospace I want to say?” “That was Howard Hughes. But you’re not too far off. He holds about fifty different patents for high-heat polymers including glues and plastics used in aerospace. The consensus on the Internet says he’s worth around a half-billion dollars.” “Sizeable chunk of change.” “Exactly. And like Hughes, he became a recluse. He’s now either eighty-eight or eightynine, depending on what site you’re at. Did you know he lived in our district?” “Lived?” “Or maybe it’s still the present tense, but I don’t think so. He rents an apartment in the Glencove district and has resided there for the past twenty-five years.” “I had no idea.” “Neither did anyone in the complex. We got a call about a half-hour ago from a unit adjacent to his. Something stinks inside Penny’s apartment.” “That’s not good.”
“Not good but not unusual, considering his age. Okay. So he’s been dead for a couple of days. We can deal with that. But here’s the problem. The complainant has been hearing strange sounds coming from his apartment.” “Like?” “Clicking, scratching, and an unmistakable roaring.” “Roaring? As in a lion roaring?” “Or it could be some other big cat. The complainant had gathered up some of his fellow apartment dwellers along with the building’s manager whose name is George Paxton. I talked to the manager, told him I was sending some people down to get everyone out of the apartment building—as in immediately.” “God yes! We need a total evacuation of the structure.” “If you want the apartment buildings adjacent to be evacuated for good measure, I’ll radio for more units.” “Yeah, go ahead. Better to be safe, right. You’ve called animal control?” “Of course. I’ve requested people with experience working with big cats. That might take awhile.” Decker shook his head. “This is crazy.” “It’s a first for me.” Silence. Decker said, “How did you end up with the call?” “Someone in-house transferred the call to Homicide. Not a bad decision, considering we’ve got an old recluse, a rotten smell, and a roaring animal. I’d say the chance for finding a dead body is very high.”
The area was largely residential: a mix of apartments, condos, and single-family homes, but there was a small strip mall of businesses located across the street from the address. The black night mixed with floodlights and with blinking lights from the bars on the cruisers. Several ambulances had been called and were standing by, just in case. After double parking, Decker and Marge got out, flashed their badges, and were allowed entry into the activity. About fifty yards up was a huddle of animal control agents in tan uniforms. He and Marge fast walked over to the circle and displayed their badges. At that specific moment, something bestial let out a ferocious bellow. Decker jumped back. The roar was especially eerie because it was a foggy and moonless night. He held up his hands in a helpless gesture. “What the hey?” A sandy-haired, muscular man in his thirties stuck out his hand, first to Marge, then to Decker. Introductions were made all around—three men and a woman roughly ranging in age from midtwenties to midforties. “Ryan Wilner.” Decker said, “I thought it was going to take a while for you guys to get here.” “Me and Hathaway were in GLAZA, teaching a seminar on big cats. Zoo is a straight shot to here if there’s no traffic.” Hathaway was tall and bald. His first name was Paul. He said, “We’re usually the big cat guys, but we do everything.” Marge said, “How often do you deal with wild animals?” “Wild animals all the time—raccoons, skunks, possum … even bears coming in from Angeles Crest. Exotics are another bag of tricks. We deal with a big cat maybe once a year,
mostly lions or tigers, but I’ve done jaguars and leopards. Couple times I’ve been asked to help out with wolf hybrid packs that had turned on their owner.” Wilner said, “I just did a chimp about a month ago.” “Lots of reptiles.” The woman who spoke had close-cropped blond hair and gray eyes and stood about six feet. Her name tag said ANDREA JULLIUS. “Local poisonous snakes like California rattlers or sidewinders. But like Ryan said, we get the exotics. Just recently, me and Jake pulled out a Gaboon viper and a monitor lizard from a trailer in Saugus.” Jake was Jake Richey. He was in his twenties with yellow hair. He looked like a surfer dude. “I’ve done lots of snake captures, but that was my first Gaboon viper.” Andrea said, “You wouldn’t believe the things people keep as pets—snakes, monitor lizards, crocs and alligators.” “What about that grizzly about a year ago?” Hathaway said. “That was a trick.” Wilner said, “And how about that female Asian elephant two years ago? In the same month, we captured a runaway male bison that was the family pet until it went into puberty and nearly took down the entire house.” But Decker was concentrating on the problem at hand. “How on earth do you get a big cat into Los Angeles?” “Mail order. You acquire some land and a license and say you’re going to set up a breeding program or a for-profit zoo or circus.” “That is crazy!” Marge said. “Not as crazy as the people who keep them as pets,” Andrea Jullius said. Wilner said, “People are delusional; always think that they have magical powers over the beast. Inevitably a wild animal lives up to its name. That’s where we come in. If everything
works out well, the animal winds up in a sanctuary. It’s no fun putting down an animal that isn’t doing anything wrong except being what it is.” Another fierce roar pierced the miasma. Decker and Marge exchanged glances. She said, “That animal sounds pissed.” “It’s very pissed,” Wilner said. “We’re going over our next step.” “Which is?” Decker said. “Drill some peepholes and see what we’re dealing with.” “My bet’s on a Bengal female tiger ,” Hathaway said. “I agree,” Wilner said. “A male lion would be five times as loud. When the area is cleared out, we’ll put on some protective gear and drill some holes. Once we see what we’re working with, we figure out how to tranquilize it and get it out of here before we have a major problem.” Another howl echoed through the dripping fog. It was engulfing, as if being swallowed alive. Decker spoke to Marge. “We should assign some agents to the apartment doorway, just in case our friend feels like busting loose.” “One step ahead of you. It’s already done,” Wilner said. “I got one with a tranquilizing gun, one with a hunting gun. We aren’t taking any chances.” He turned to Agent Andrea Jullius. “What’s going on with the equipment from the zoo?” “Twenty more minutes.” Wilner tossed keys to Hathaway. “You wanna go get the protective gear?” “Sure,” Hathaway said. “Do you have a vest for me?” Decker said. “I want to take a look through the peepholes. Homicide was called because the apartment was rented to an old man.”
“Our policy is no civilians,” Wilner told him. “And what are the chances that the old man inside is still alive?” Decker said, “This is my community, and I feel responsible for everything that goes on here. I want to see the layout of the apartment so I know what I’m dealing with.” “It’s gonna be grisly.” “I’ve done grisly before. Once I saw a dead guy being gnawed on by a wild mountain lion. It bothered me, but that’s okay. When things stop bothering me, I’ll know it’s time to quit.”
BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Mystery/Thriller
Published by: Harper Collins/ William Morrow
Publication Date: August 6, 2013
Number of Pages: 384
ISBN: 9780062121752

PURCHASE LINKS:

           

PICT_badge

If you’d like to join in on an upcoming tour just stop by our sites and sign up today!

Follow the Tour:



DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.